Small World: Overture
by Nan00k
Summary: Act V: After failing at ending the world, Crowley made a series of choices to save his own life… and the lives of the very few people that ever mattered. (Part of the Small World AU series. SuperWhoLock plus Good Omens.)
1. Forward

**_SMALL WORLD: OVERTURE_**

Across the universe, there are a wide variety of souls.

These were always the most important.

_A SuperWhoLockFormersOmens fan fiction by Nan00k._

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**_Overall Notes_**:

Yes, this is a SuperWhoLockFormersOmens fic. Yes. _**Yes**__, you read that correctly_. Here is the prologue of the insanely long series called _Small World_, in which I've blended about five different fandoms (plus _many_ cameos in the background of others), which focuses mainly on Superwholock. _Small World_, the actual main story, will debut once the fourteen prologue stories are published here. They are all separate one-shots that create the basis of this little world you are soon to fall head over heels into.

This is a slow building story, but I did this as an attempt to do the impossible: to blend all of the fandoms I enjoy. Personally, I think I accomplished that impossible task. ;)

Enjoy.


	2. Building Down

_**Small World: Overture  
**_"**Building Down"  
**by Nan00k

He began as a demon only to become the greatest human detective ever known. This is the beginning of a much larger story, one that takes us over time, space, and all the lives in between. Superwholock, AU. demon!Sherlock.

Here's the beginning of Sherlock's side of this insanely long series.

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**Warnings**: MASSIVE crossover, mixing of canons, alternative universe setting, disturbing descriptive imagery, dark themes  
**Disclaimers**: _Supernatural_ © Kripke/CW. _Good Omens_ © Pratchet and Gaiman. _Doctor Who_ © BBC. _Sherlock_ © Moffat/Gatiss.

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He was created to observe. To watch. To hunt. To seek out the weakest prey, ensnaring their minds, their emotions, their souls.

He was created to be ignored. He was the invisible watchman. He was the breeze, the touch of air, that invaded every space, untouchable.

He was Zephyr.

Mortal eyes could not see him, but could see them. He always could. He saw into their souls. They were bright, odd things to see after what felt like an eternity of darkness. Like miniature stars caught up in wet mud. The others, his brothers born in darkness, all said the souls were ugly things. He wasn't entirely sure if they were. They were just lights. Lights caught up in a dull, dull world.

He did what he was intended, after being created by their master, after the Fall. Zephyr was thrown into the newborn cradle of life on Earth, a place that was both his prison and sanctuary. He was ignored by the war of Heaven and Hell. He was ignored when their dark master fell and was trapped. He was ignored when the playing field was yet again prepped for another battle in yet another time, a long ways from now.

Zephyr kept to his wind and danced among the mortals he encountered, dragging darkness into their own lives, into their thoughts and minds. He observed them until he understood the nature of mankind, of humanity, even as they, like all other manner of creatures, ignored him in return.

He moved in the wind to all edges of the barely cooled world and did what he was made for—he had no other purpose.

He moved, and watched. Always.

**0000**

_Mesopotamia_

_3400 B.C._

The humans moved, almost with as much ferocious intent as he did. They moved for sake of land and better prospects. And when they moved to newer parts of the untouched Earth, Zephyr followed. His place was with them, between them, and around them. They never knew, even as he worked in seeds of darkness into their minds with only whispers.

He didn't know what happened there, in that basin where civilization was beginning to take hold. Many things occurred, for them, as well as for him. He wasn't sure how it started. He wasn't sure what caused it.

The seed of his own misery.

As it turned out, perhaps it was the fault of another demon Zephyr had never met before. They ran into each other incidentally. Afterwards, for the rest of his existence, Zephyr never forgot who Crawly was. It was… unconceivable.

He sensed him before he saw him. It was almost possible to miss the lounging demon in the second floor window ledge, gazing out at the burgeoning metropolis that could only be doomed to fall later. The Serpent had lost his form he was known for and instead took up the guise of a human man. Zephyr edged closer warily; he did not want to startle a potential threat. Just because they were both from the darkness did not mean they were allies in the wilds of Earth.

Crawly stared him down, seeing him in a way none of the other mortals ever did. Zephyr felt a shrill feeling course down his incorporeal form. If he actually had a body, perhaps he would have felt fear. Or something akin to elation. He wasn't entirely sure he was capable of such a thing.

"You're a long way from the sea, Zephyr," Crawly said, breaking the silence. He waved his hand a little, sensing the other demon's question. "It's my job to know what's going on down here on Earth, including who's here on it."

"And you're Crawly," Zephyr replied, his whispering voice just whispered of air. Crawly wrinkled his face; how human. It was odd.

"_Please_. I go by Crowley now," Crawly said, settling back into his seat. He kept his golden serpent eyes on the street below, but Zephyr knew he was watching him carefully. Crawly—or rather, Crowley—was always a smart creature. "What are you doing here?"

"I follow the mud creatures," Zephyr replied. He drifted to observe the other demon closer. "They're moving around so much now. I have to move with them."

He had to in order to do his job, which was to ruin their lives in whatever ways he could think of. The wind could be a benefit to them, but not while he was there. He drifted where they went and whispered dark things while they slept. It brought him directly to Crowley, and Zephyr wasn't entirely sure that was a good thing.

"You're always a part of wind, are you?" Crowley asked suddenly.

Zephyr felt a twinge of confusion. "What else do I have?" he asked, whipping around in demonstration, only managing to flutter the dark locks above Crowley's tanned brow. "I am not to interact with the mortals like you. I corrupt them from within, not destroy them."

Crowley smirked. "Oh, there's more to it than that," he said. He held up a hand, admiring it with half-lidded eyes. "It's quite enjoyable."

"Inside a mud creature?"

"This is my own body," Crowley pointed out irritably. He gestured at his frame, as if it were supposed to be impressive. "You could probably get away with possession. No one downstairs would ever care if you did or not."

Zephyr couldn't care less for the politics it would involve to get his own body. Possession was easy enough, he supposed. "No reason to," he said.

"It's a delightful experience. Take my word for it." Crowley finished off his human drink, his face making it seem like he enjoyed it. He threw the cup aside and stood. "Or don't."

Zephyr had no intention to. It was ridiculous. Foolish.

He had people to watch; he didn't need them to watch him back.

"Better keep moving, West Wind," the Serpent told him before exiting the house. "There's an angel not too far from here."

A dangerous threat, one that Zephyr would not ignore. Even he did not drift into areas where the feathered monsters existed. They could snap him into oblivion.

For that, he had decided to follow Crowley's example and leave the city. Or at least, he had thought he was following the other demon's trail to safer havens. No sane demon would ever go near an angel without a Duke backing them up.

Zephyr was sincerely disappointed when he found Crowley. Because Crowley was not alone.

It was not to last, but it was enough that Zephyr remained where he was, horrified and filled with utter confusion, as he watched Crowley engage a real angel in combat.

A combat with knives. Insults were thrown. But the angel did not blow Crowley into oblivion. He took to the knives just as readily as Crowley did, and was just as ready to throw words like the humans did in their scuffles.

A loose stone sent the angel down, and without prompt, Crowley slit his throat. Red sprayed out into the air and Zephyr felt the particles fly through him like rain.

Angels bleeding. It was a strange world.

All at once, Zephyr descended upon Crowley, who only then noticed the other demonic spirit.

"Why?"

"Why, what?" Crowley demanded, barely glancing back at Zephyr.

The wind blew harder. "You could have destroyed him. You just killed his flesh. He will return." Only if an angel's grace was destroyed, or a demon's essence obliterated, would either Crowley or that angel would actually die. This angel was still alive, doomed to return to the Earth if he was sent back by his superiors.

"Not point, really." Crowley didn't even seem concerned. He stood, stretched his mortal frame, and made is if to leave the room. "Sooner or later, they'll just send another. Might as well keep your enemies familiar rather than new."

"Crowley," the other demon tried, not understanding.

Crowley sent him a glare. "Do your own work, Zephyr. I can do mine just fine."

Zephyr billowed and blustered, now utterly at his limits for comprehending. He didn't understand. Any of it.

"Familiar," he said out loud. Crowley stopped and gave him a moment longer to speak. "I do not know this."

He didn't know faces that mattered. Names had no point to his memory. All mortals were the same, and it wasn't like there were immortals around long enough to matter. For the next few thousand years, Zephyr would be alone. Until the End, at any rate.

Familiar just didn't _work_.

"I suppose you don't," Crowley replied. His eyes narrowed into just two flashes of gold. "I'm just unlucky enough to know from experience."

He didn't know what that was supposed to mean. Crowley was a demon. He was no different than Zephyr.

Except for familiarity. Perhaps that did matter.

"…It's not entirely awful though," Crowley admitted without warning. He did not look at the dead angel. He stared out at the door instead.

Zephyr could not shake the unease he felt at the depth of his self. "I wouldn't know," he said.

He did not understand what that would matter, to him or anyone else.

"Maybe you should," Crowley told him, without explaining why. He turned and left.

Zephyr left soon after. Dead angels did not sit well with him.

He remembered the conversation for decades later, however. It never left him even while the rest of the world spun on without him.

**0000**

He stole a human's body seventy years later. It was almost a spontaneous choice. Zephyr never made many of those in his lifetime, mostly because he had never had many choices to make.

This time, he did have a choice. It haunted him ever since running into Crawly and seeing what it was like for one of his own kind to parade around in mortal flesh as if they belonged there.

It was like diving low—low into the dirt. Mud creatures. Made of mud and dirt and solidness of mountains. Zephyr could not stand it at first. It was a cage, that flesh. He was the wind, a tamable, untouchable force. A body was nothing like the air. He should have rejected it all and forgot what Crawly promised.

But then…

Then…

He realized.

Lifting his head—such an odd, odd thing to do after eons of never having one—Zephyr saw into the eyes of other humans, who had no idea what had just occurred. They stared at him as strangers, companions, perhaps family.

They saw him.

_**They saw him.**_

All at once, it was obvious. He was enraptured. He was seen. He was noticed. Eyes, so many, passed his form day by day, innocently, on purpose—they landed on him. They found him in the crowd. He was granted reality after so many centuries of being whispered or being fantasized.

He was real now.

He barely paid heed to the screaming human mind that was along for the ride. It was unimportant, especially over the years, when it finally faded out, an extinguished flame. It was irrelevant.

This was perfection.

**0000**

_France_

_1506 AD_

He was in an inn just south of Paris a few hundred centuries later. A new body, a new town. It was a regular routine, considering human bodies never lasted as long as he would ever need them to.

It was an odd change of time perception, however. Zephyr had always lived in a whirlwind of change—humans lived, died and more replaced them at a consistent rate. What decent species only lived a hundred years? It was pathetic.

But once he was living that century, Zephyr was startled when he began to notice time slowing down. When had ten years felt like a century? Or a century like a thousand? It was odd and disorientating. He didn't like it at all, but all things just needed time to adjust to, he had learned.

He was proud of his learned knowledge, even if it was centered around the human race. They were intriguing up close. He had thought he had seen everything he had to know about them from watching at a distance; he now knew that living as one of them gave him an even clearer perspective of their meek little lives.

That's what had brought him to that inn, a speck on the roadside. He didn't enjoy human drink, but he enjoyed the noise that followed. He got lost in the chaos of interaction. He didn't mind sitting out on the noise; he liked to watch. He always liked to watch. Sometimes he was watched back, of course, which he enjoyed just as much.

Sometimes, humans singled him out. Zephyr glanced to the side as a bald man with a long face and nose slid into the seat across from him.

"Hello there, mate," the man said, all too cheerful, flashing bold white teeth.

It was not French, nor German, or any language Zephyr was used to hearing while he took up his role as an ordinary French traveler. It was English, the language of the Britons across the sea. What was a Briton doing here?

His clothing was odd. Very tight fitting and his coat was short, made of an odd, shiny material like a fabric made of metal. Everything about him was odd.

Especially his two heartbeats.

The man noticed the silent treatment he was receiving and his smile turned hesitant. "Just curious. You don't happen to know what the date is, do you?" he asked, abruptly in French. He probably thought Zephyr couldn't understand him. The stranger continued to ramble, unperturbed by Zephyr's staring. "Ran into a bit of trouble long the way. You know, lost track of the day."

Zephyr placed his flagon on the table and examined the creature closer. "What are you?" he asked, using English. He knew all the languages of man at that point.

The man froze. "Eh?"

"You are not human." Zephyr's eyes narrowed as he took in the odd clothing, the odd manner of speaking. "You are not from Earth."

There was no manner of creature like this, with two hearts and colder flesh. He stank of something else, something that had only recently come to the water world of Earth. He was not a demon, nor an angel, nor any monster that Zephyr knew of. He was old, however. Very old.

This was not of Earth, whatever this creature was.

His table companion visibly faltered at the question, but unlike a normal human, he did not refute the accusation. "…Uh… okay… you got me there," he said. Abruptly, his smile returned and he leaned on his elbows on the table, intrigued. "How'd ya tell? I'm not _that_ differently dressed than the rest of you lot. Maybe a little cleaner."

This was the first time Zephyr had had the chance to speak with a creature that wasn't human in the last millennia. It was surreal. "I can…" He stopped himself. He had no reason to reveal his own secrets to a stranger. "Never mind. What are you?"

"Time Lord, at your service," the creature replied, just as cheerful as before. "Name's the Doctor."

Zephyr observed his mannerisms carefully. The creature had a soul, but it wasn't like a human soul. "…You are old," he accused. He stared pointedly at bizarre clothing. "And this is not your time." The question was how he got to this particular point in Earth history. Were angels involved? Zephyr hoped not.

The Doctor's eyebrows were raised high on his face. "You're good…" He abruptly peered closely back at the demon, obviously ignorant to what he was staring down. "What are you, if I may ask?"

If he wasn't of Earth and wasn't an angel, perhaps there was no harm in conversation. "I am Zephyr," the demon offered, picking up his flagon.

"The West Wind?" the Doctor exclaimed, startling Zephyr.

"I…" Zephyr glared, uncertain. Not many in this era knew that title. "Yes?"

"Sorry, the name, and all," the odd creature replied, shrugging. His eyes were bright. "Wait, are you really the West Wind?"

Weighing his options, Zephyr nodded stiffly. "Yes."

That earned him an impressed look. "Very solid looking," the Doctor offered, eyes appraising Zephyr's form.

Zephyr returned to his drink. "Not my body."

The brightness shone brighter in those beady eyes across from him. "Ohhh. That explains it," the Doctor said. He paused. "Well, that's mighty awkward."

No, it wasn't, or at least, it wasn't to Zephyr. It didn't bother him. He wondered if he stopped talking, the alien would leave. Zephyr was not about to get involved with a creature that stood out this much. He wanted the attention of humans, not his bosses or the angels, after all.

"Anyway, it's a pleasure to meet you, Zephyr. You live around here?" the Doctor continued, ignoring the silence. He gestured at Zephyr with his eyes. "I mean, you're the wind and all. Does your body live here?"

The body was French. "Yes. I travel."

"Very interesting." The Doctor wore an odd expression and he tilted his head as he continued to stare down the demon. "Where'd you get the body?"

Zephyr glared at the questions. This creature's interest was now very much unwanted. "None of your business."

"Huh." The intrigued expression did not fade. It did take on a jaded concern that did not sit well with Zephyr's instincts. "That's a human in there, isn't there?"

"Yes," Zephyr drawled, challenging.

The Doctor's eyes changed with a flash of concern. "That's not right," he said, as if that meant something to a creature like Zephyr.

A growl built up in Zephyr's mortal gut and he glared as he leaned over the table. "Mortal, you cannot possible _begin_ to understand what I am, nor what is right concerning my actions," he said, knowing the threat was all too clear in his words and posture. He would not tolerate a mudcreature lecturing him on anything.

Annoyingly, the Doctor was not intimidated. He did raise his hands in apparent surrender. "No, I wouldn't be able to. You're a real force of nature," he said with a calmness that Zephyr didn't understand. "But it's still not right."

"I don't care," Zephyr replied, sitting back, his glare permanent.

"I mean, you get to see the world, maybe, but what about them?" the Doctor continued, insisted. "They don't get a chance to see anything."

This creature wasn't even human. Why did he care? "They're not harmed. I possess the young and release them at old age," Zephyr replied. He paused; why was he explaining himself?

"That's their whole life, though," the Doctor complained.

Zephyr clenched his fist around his drink and glared the alien down. "I don't _care_."

Why should he care about the creatures he possessed? They were everywhere. It wasn't like they were rare or special. The human he was possessing now would have been dead by thirty on his own, a farmer. A useless life.

He was practically doing humanity a favor, giving at least one of their kind a _real_ use.

Silence fell between them, and he could sense the Doctor wanted to say more. Perhaps he did have a sense of self preservation, and didn't want to anger the demon more. Wise creature. Zephyr peered up at his companion, meeting the intense stare calmly now.

"What are you doing here?" he asked at length, eyeing the alien carefully.

The Doctor perked up, the previous tension disappearing like a mist. "Like I said, just ran amuck the wrong time," he explained.

There was much to learn from that statement. "Time traveler?" Zephyr prompted, intrigued again. Not often did mortals have the ability to travel though time. This was the first time he had ever met one personally.

The mortal nodded enthusiastically. "Yep. I'm the last of the Time Lords." The flash of grief that resonated in his soul did not show on his face.

"I have never heard of your race," Zephyr admitted at the repeated name. Only Earth-based life had ever mattered.

"We're from a long ways away," the Doctor replied with a laugh. He glanced around the room. "Earth's a great place though. So much to see and do."

After spending millennia there, Zephyr had to agree. "Indeed."

"But there's a lot more out there. A lot more worlds. Some are just starting," the Doctor continued with the same gusto. He waved his hands. He was a very energetic human, which grated Zephyr's patience. "Kinda like this place, but at least the humans have finally evolved and all. Some places? They're just a speck of life in the whole cosmos. They're _fantastic_."

Zephyr had been there on Earth during those beginning stages on this planet. "Yes. I suppose they would be." Not as interesting as the ages that followed, however; sentient creatures would always be more important to him.

"Want to come?" the Doctor abruptly asked, making Zephyr pause. "You say you're a traveler. I travel, too. It's my thing, you see." The alien grinned at Zephyr's surprise. "It does get a bit lonely. Maybe a fellow traveler would appreciate the travels, you know?"

Leave? Leave Earth? Zephyr just stared at the creature in open surprise, not caring if he was exposed like that. It could not be that simple. Earth was the center of all the trials of Heaven and Hell. A creature like Zephyr was created to creep all the ends of the globe—and no where else. Unless, of course, he broke the rules that defined him.

He was stuck on Earth, even if he did steal a body that could go elsewhere. Taking the Doctor's form could potentially lead him away from this planet. Perhaps there were only things to see.

But there would not be humans. Zephyr felt a twinge of unease at the thought of not watching them anymore. Or not interacting with them. Age upon age he had spent there on Earth… all around the humans.

The humans… were not something he felt comfortable existing without. It would practically nullify his purpose, after all.

"…No, thank you." Zephyr rested his hands on the edge of the table, meeting the time traveler's eyes readily. "I must remain with Earth."

There was no other place in the universe he belonged, honestly.

The refusal didn't bother the Doctor in the slightest. "Not a problem," he replied pleasantly. He clapped his hands together. "Well, thanks for the chat. I need to get moving. The TARDIS should be done fixing up that little glitch."

Zephyr arched an eyebrow. "TARDIS?" An odd name.

"My ship," the Doctor told him, beaming proudly. "She's a real beaut. Maybe, if we run into each other again, I can show you her."

There was no way they'd meet again, at least, not in the long term. Zephyr took a long drink. The creature might not have been human, but he was certainly mortal.

All mortal things died, leaving him behind.

The Doctor stood up. "See you around, Zephyr," the alien said, sounding as if he actually meant it. His grin was as wide as ever. "Hope you find some spectacular stuff."

He left the inn and Zephyr, who remained in his seat. The demon mulled over the creature's words and was discomforted by the fact the unexpected encounter had left him uneasy.

The Doctor had taught him something incidentally, something that didn't leave his consciousness for some time after their meeting. All mortal things died in such a short amount of time. It was only logical that his presence did not take up too much of one particular lifespan. He was able to see more that way.

That night, he left his host to find another, one younger. Between burgeoning adulthood and middle age—that surely left him enough time with each host. A compromise he found easy to accept.

It made sense, that, after awhile, and when something made sense, even Zephyr could not argue with it.

**0000**

_London_

_1940_

The smell of burning brick and mortar was pungent in the hazy air. The bombings had finally stopped that day, leaving large portions of London in gray and fire. Even in the last few minutes of night before dawn, the smoke hung like clouds.

Zephyr sidestepped a rushing policeman and stared up at the lightening sky. He couldn't see much of it. The Luftewaffe had continually dropped bombs on the city for the last seven nights. He didn't have much to fear from the bombing; even in a country in the throes of the incessant aerial attacks brought on by those bloody cretins across the Channel.

He had come to England nearly three centuries ago, and he hadn't found a reason to leave yet. The Germans wouldn't chase him out either. Neither would their _blitzkrieg_.

Most of England went on sleeping, but those in lower London had never slept. The bombs had taken out whole strips of shops and houses. Zephyr could smell the dead. He wrapped a scarf up over his aging face, hiding a grimace.

A few brave souls crept out of the Underground, where the police had tried to herd as many civilians as possible down to eight hours ago, when the bombings had started up again. Women did their best to turn the communist-built structures into homes for their scared children; their husbands were off fighting in the War, or already dead. Zephyr kept his distance while in the tunnels. He listened to the explosions, counting the time between them.

He never thought to intervene, though he could have brought the planes down if left his host. That wasn't his place. He lived as human as any human could. Pretty soon, however, he'd have to find another host. This one was nearly fifty. He didn't want to pick a younger man next, though; being drafted and sent back over to the mainland Europe would have been irritating.

Stepping out into the smoke-ridden air, however, Zephyr was lost in the thoughts of just what was happening. The world was changing radically. He was fascinated. How quickly the humans turned on each other. This was nothing like the wars he had seen ages ago, in China, or the Middle East. It was all so different.

He wondered at how it was worse. He didn't expect himself to judge one human massacre as worse than another. Where had that judgment come from?

Children escaped their mothers' clutches, and the boys rushed up the stairs to get to the streets. They wanted to observe the damages.

"Lookit it all," a tall boy said, gawking at the fires.

Zephyr tuned out the chatter. He thought about getting something to eat. His own apartment had been destroyed three days prior. Luckily, he wasn't sentimental about property. That was impossible after living for millennia—

The four boys who had started to poke through nearby piles froze at the same time he did when the air raid siren went off again unexpectedly. Dawn was almost upon them, but the night still promised dangers. Zephyr could hear the telltale buzzing getting closer.

"They're coming back," the smallest boy next to him gasped.

Zephyr hid a snarl.

"Go down," he said, without another thought. He grabbed two of the boys by their collars, and threw them back at the stairs. "Go, move!"

He ducked his head when the shriek of a plane was followed rapidly by the explosive power of hundreds of pounds of bombs slammed into the already dilapidated street. The boys yelled and dove toward the safety of the dark stairs. Zephyr hauled the smallest boy over the last step and shoved the four back once they were clear of the opening.

The walls shook and smoke billowed down the stairs like water. Gravel and glass were shot around and the distant sound of men shouting told them that some had not gotten back to the shelter in time.

Zephyr waited, tense. Eventually, the bombing stopped. Like always.

Quiet, harsh breaths behind him slowly became the dominant sound, other than distant yelling.

"Is it over?" the nearest lad asked, peering out behind his shadow.

Zephyr scoured the skies and felt confident the danger had passed. "Yes." He let go of the boy's shirt—when had he grabbed it?—and pushed the boy away with his friends. "Go. Find your mothers."

**0000**

_London_

_1959_

"Small world, isn't it?"

Zephyr didn't look up from his newspaper. His entire body was tenser than a coiled spring. He ignored his coffee on the table and focused on the black and white words in front of him, trying desperately to ignore the demon who had chosen to sit directly behind him.

"Crowley," Zephyr replied. He turned a page and tried to keep calm. "You are still with the angel."

He had felt the angel first. The blond haired man was like a beacon in the night, worse than any air raid siren. With the end of the war now decently behind them, Zephyr had no way to ignoring something as poignant as an angel moving into his hometown.

What was worse was the fact that the angel was not alone. Crowley showed up, almost in the angel's shadow.

_Troublesome_, Zephyr thought through his haze of panic.

"Yes," Crowley replied. There was a clinking sound as he moved his own cup of coffee around on the café table. "Problem?"

That wasn't a question, as much as an offer. Zephyr knew that making it a problem was now an option, not a guarantee.

He decided not to make it a problem. "…None at all," he replied smoothly. "England is nice." Well, it was nicer now that the Blitz was over and done with.

Crowley hummed. "I think so," he agreed. "Better than a lot of other places I've been."

There was a few minutes of silence between them. Zephyr realized that Crowley had shown up to see if Zephyr was any threat to him. It didn't make Zephyr relax much, but he was glad that most of the danger was gone.

Crowley didn't leave immediately. He drank his coffee quietly, and Zephyr did the same with his tea.

"…You've heard the news, I take it?" Crowley asked, abruptly.

Zephyr hid a flinch. "What news?"

"How much contact do you have with our lovely overseers?" Crowley asked dryly.

Overseers? He must have meant Dukes or the lords of hell. Zephyr paused. How much _contact_ did he have with _them_? In the last two millennia?

Absolutely _none_, but that was a bit too much to reveal. Zephyr arched an eyebrow at his newspaper. "Not enough apparently."

He heard Crowley shrug. "We've got a few more years," the Serpent replied. "Maybe twenty if we're lucky."

"Until?"

"You know how it ends."

All at once, Zephyr froze. The open-air café they were alone at seemed colder and emptier as Crowley's simple words sunk in.

Yes. They all knew how it Ended.

"…So soon?" Zephyr managed to ask. His voice betrayed flood of fear he was feeling.

"It came up fast, didn't it?" Crowley asked, sounding winded. "I'm doing my best not to think of it right now, honest."

"Why?" Zephyr asked, frowning. He slowly put his paper down, staring out at the air intensely. "This is your destiny. All of ours."

The world was going to end according to the Plan. Whether their side won, or the angels won, was irrelevant.

All of that was before them now…would end. There was no avoiding it, not even in thought.

Crowley was silent for a moment. "I suppose it is," he agreed at length.

The only thing that fell between them after that was the distant sound of random construction on the street behind them. People seemed absent all of a sudden. Zephyr couldn't believe the claustrophobic shroud that fell over them.

It truly was an unpleasant train of thought, to think about the End.

"…I don't think they have cafés in hell, though," Crowley said abruptly.

"No." Zephyr gazed upwards. "And no sky." Oh, what a horrible thought.

"No wind," Crowley replied.

Without thinking, Zephyr added, "No angels."

He might have gone too far. But there was silence following his comment.

"…No," Crowley agreed quietly. "None… at all."

Zephyr gripped the side of his table as all of those thoughts resounded in his mind. His borrowed flesh felt cold.

Since when had this mattered? He wondered. Ever since he was given existence on Earth, he had anticipated the End. It could have only been years away. Decades, maybe. What would London be like a few decades?

Would the streets be rebuilt then? Would he still be there?

Zephyr couldn't shake those thoughts, even when Crowley got up and left him there. He couldn't shake the traitorous feeling of disappointment he felt.

He couldn't shake the overwhelming sense that this wasn't _fair_.

He wasn't like Crowley, or any of the demons he had ever met. They all had been to Hell. Some had even come from Heaven, like Crowley had. They knew the consequences of the outcome from the End better. They knew what good or bad could come from it.

Zephyr…only knew Earth. He had only known humanity and all of its quirks.

He didn't belong to Heaven, or to Hell, Zephyr realized reluctantly.

So the End…was just as much the End to him as it would be Earth.

And perhaps, he reasoned, that was acceptable.

Coffee forgotten, Zephyr forged a sense of strength from that realization. He stood and brushed off his sleeves, as if shrugging away those last dredges of claustrophobic doubts.

He was no _demon_. He was a spirit. A monster, perhaps, but no more a creature of Hell.

He was, by all means, a creature of Earth.

The End would claim him, as it would any other mortal or immortal, soon enough. He couldn't fight it. He was just as helpless as a human.

It was alright by him, that.

Somehow, it was just alright.

**0000**

_Birmingham, England_

_1976_

He found the phone box first, parked outside of a bar. It wasn't a real phone box, but he was probably the only creature in that area who would have noticed the difference.

The time traveler was back.

The bar was bustling with all sorts of patrons, but Zephyr easily found the man he was looking for. It was odd—this time, the Doctor wasn't in the same form. It was the same body, but it was utterly different. This time he had tall brown hair and was wearing a blue suit under a dark over coat.

Zephyr wondered how the time traveler could change his form like that. Was his race prone to shape shifting? All that mattered in the end was what was on the inside, however. Zephyr could see that it was the same creature. How fascinating.

The Doctor was seated at a table, looking around the room excited to just be there apparently. Zephyr sat down opposite of him when he was looking the other way. An oblivious creature, he noticed.

"Hello, again," he said.

The alien turned and stared at Zephyr blankly. "I'm sorry, have we met?" the Doctor asked after a moment, his eyes squinted in a futile to see him better.

Zephyr frowned. "…I am Zephyr." Apparently the alien could not sense him like he could the alien.

"…what the…?" The Doctor blinked and then smiled broadly, ultimately unaffected. "You really _aren't_ human, are you? I'll be. It's been at _least_ four hundred years."

"Yes."

The Doctor grinned and sat back against his chair. "So, how are you? I bet you've seen a bunch of interesting stuff, even just on this planet alone."

"I suppose I have," Zephyr admitted. He peered closer at the alien's flesh. The soul was the same, but the body… "You've changed form as well."

"Time Lord," the alien replied, shameless. "I, ah, ran into the need to change my face up a bit. I'm also a guest in this time, in case you didn't guess." Grinning again, the Doctor pointed across the tavern at a blond woman talking animatedly with the locals. She almost fit in, but just by associating with the alien, she was different. "See her over there? I'm showing her the universe."

A bold statement. Zephyr observed the alien. "I see."

"And what about you?" the Doctor asked. He leaned closer, eyes again squinted. "Where'd _this_ body come from?"

"A banker," Zephyr replied, honest.

There was an odd hesitance that entered the alien's face. "…Oh." Slowly sitting back, the Doctor peered at Zephyr. "Still, ah, possessing people?"

The judgmental tone did not escape Zephyr's notice. "I have no choice. I have no means to make my own body." He frowned at the Doctor's unease. "I don't kill them."

"Still," the Doctor insisted, worried. "You're taking somebody's life away, mate. That's no good."

Zephyr glared. "What would _you_ suggest then, Doctor?" he demanded. "You may live longer than other humans, but you are still mortal. You don't understand what I have to endure just in order to live among things like you."

"Why do you do it then?" the Doctor prompted.

"Why?" Zephyr sneered. "You know why."

"Because you're lonely?"

An absurd suggestion. "Because—" Zephyr stopped. He felt his borrowed skin crawl. "How… would anyone see me? I live to watch and understand the world, but the world will never see me in return. I have no interest in fading into the shadows like before."

It didn't make any sense logically. He was beyond man. He might not have been a proper demon by birth, but he wasn't human. He couldn't be, not like this. He could have stayed in the body until its death, but he wouldn't die with it. He was trapped on the Earth, to wander forever.

And… that scared him. He had only recently understood that it scared him, that fate.

He didn't matter. He would never matter. The only time he ever did were those in between lives he managed to live in borrowed bodies, where eyes could finally see him.

He needed to be seen. He _needed_ it, even if it managed to destroy him.

"You don't need to, Zephyr," the Doctor replied, looking sad. "But there has to be a way to give you what you want without ruining it for others."

Zephyr felt defensive. "I have no desire for your technology, or your schemes."

"Can't you just keep looking for a body that won't be stealing?" the Doctor asked. He didn't sound like he was trying to bully Zephyr, but his insistence was grating.

"What? Steal from the dead?" Zephyr scoffed. That was impossible; the body would just rot. He'd never blend in that way. "That won't work. Besides, I am not desperate."

The Doctor averted his gaze, tone sarcastic. "I wouldn't say that…"

Zephyr glared. The sudden wind that shot through the bar startled the patrons, including the Doctor's blonde friend, and sent the window glass and beer mugs rattling. The Doctor froze and then looked back at Zephyr. He seemed more surprised than afraid. Of course.

"I forgot you had a temper," the Doctor said, bemused now.

"You do not know me, alien," Zephyr snapped. He went to get out of the chair. While a familiar face was oddly comforting for a creature like himself, he did not appreciate this creature's arrogance to correct him.

The Doctor waved his hands, trying to get the other being to stay. "I might not, but I'm still here to look for options," he said hurriedly. "If I ever find something, I'll let you know."

"Why?" Zephyr demanded, incredulous.

"Why, what?"

"Why would you help me?" The alien had zero logical reason to want anything to do with the spirit, to help or hinder.

"Because you're not a bad guy. You're just in a rotten situation. I can understand that." The Doctor smiled. "You don't want to hurt people, do you?"

Wanted? Zephyr wasn't sure he wanted anything, other than to be seen. Anything else was morally irrelevant.

"…I would prefer…" he began, not sure how to reply. "To avoid it."

Because it was easier not to. Only that. That was the only answer that made sense.

"Then, I have all the reason to help you then," the Doctor said, so surely and confident, it was unreal.

Zephyr glared. "I don't want your help."

The Doctor nodded. "Then help yourself."

"_How_?"

Teeth brilliant white, the Doctor grinned at him. "Find your _own_ life."

How could he say that so simply? Zephyr stared at the time traveler, unsure if he felt angry or just… helpless.

Find his own life? What did that even _mean_?

Was that… even _possible_ for a creature like him?

"You make… it sound so easy…" There were rules. So many rules. Hell would not bother with a specter like him. He was nothing compared to real demons.

"Maybe… maybe that's what you need," the Doctor said, smiling gently. He tapped the table in front of Zephyr matter-of-factly. "You just need a chance of your own, Zeph. So don't stop looking for it."

Life was not going to drop down in front of him. He had no way to create a body or a life that was solely his own. He was Zephyr. He might not have been a true demon, but he was still a supernatural being. He wasn't human. He never would be.

No matter how much he tried, Zephyr was the wind. He could never be what he wanted to be, no matter how pathetic his desire.

He would never be human.

The Doctor stood up and towered just barely over Zephyr as they both stood by their chairs. He seemed cheerful, oblivious to Zephyr's despair.

"I need to get going. Places to be, things to see…" the Time Lord said. He pointed at Zephyr and shook his finger at the spirit. "But if you ever change your mind, just give a holler."

The gall and ridiculousness of his comment made Zephyr snort. "And how would you know where to find me, time traveler?" he asked, shoveling aside his discomfort to dwell on later.

"I'm the Doctor," the alien told him with far too much confidence. "I always find a way."

He walked around the table and patted Zephyr's shoulder as he would any close friend. Zephyr watched as the Doctor met up with his female companion and escorted her back outside. Perhaps they would go to another time, or another world. They could live as many lives as Zephyr could…

But at least they were themselves.

Zephyr remained in the bar, staring at the door long after they had left.

His own life.

That was a dream he couldn't help but dream.

**0000**

_England_

_1981_

In the middle of London, he found a hospital. His last body had finally reached its limits and he abandoned the flesh with reluctance. He had never felt guilt over taking them before, but there was something wrong that time. He felt… ill once he stepped out of it in his true form. Almost like if he attempted to do it again on another, it would get worse.

It made him doubt he would ever again choose to possess a body. The words of the Doctor rang in his mind. He didn't want to steal flesh. He wanted his own. He needed it; he'd go mad without being able to be seen by the world he always, always watched. The rest of the world would only see the body he stole—never _him_. It wasn't fair.

He found himself ghosting through the hospital, hoping to find something—someone—useable. If he just _did_ it without thinking it over too much, maybe it wouldn't be bad. Maybe he could ignore the fact that this repeated gesture on his part was theft—murder, even. He didn't care about those mortal lives. It was just…

Why _couldn't_ he be better than this?

And then, he found a room that changed everything.

It was a small, obviously well-to-do family. He had no interest in the quietly crying woman, or her stone-faced husband. Their eldest son was a sullen lad, staring at the wall above the hospital bed that held the smallest human in the room, who did ensnare Zephyr's interests almost immediately.

It was a young boy, stricken with a horrid fever that ravaged his fading body. He couldn't have been more than five years old. There would be no recovering from this. Zephyr stood back and watched as the doctors tried and failed to save the doomed life. By the time Zephyr dared to move in close, it was too late.

The child's body lived, but soul could not hold on; it slipped away like a quiet sigh. Zephyr dared to move into the room, sending the bed curtains flopping slightly in the breeze he brought with him. The parents didn't notice. They wept, oblivious as any other mortal. The other son, most likely in his teens, left stiffly, his eyes betraying his heartbreak.

Zephyr turned his attention to the body, more a corpse than alive. It was connected to all sorts of wires and machines. He listened to the mechanical breathing and strained to hear any other signs of life. The human inside of it was utterly gone. The soul…

The mother cried, for good reason; her child was dead. Zephyr watched for a long moment.

"_Maybe… maybe that's what you need. You just need a chance of your own, Zeph_."

A chance? A chance for what—he still didn't understand. He didn't want to. He wasn't like Crowley, who desired companionship. He wasn't good at heart like the Doctor had foolishly pleaded he was; he didn't even have a heart.

But…

Zephyr floated above the bed, staring down at the closed eyes and gaunt, abandoned flesh.

If it were his, the eyes of the parents and the brother—plus the eyes of the rest of the world he experienced—would know him. He would be seen. And not just as a demon possessing some innocent.

This… this would be his and his alone. There was no wrong here. It was a free chance. His single chance, to become one with the world like Crowley had praised, to be his own flesh and blood in the world of the humans—in a world Zephyr had finally accepted as what he cherished over all else.

He took the chance. He dove into the body, reveling in its emptiness. He was the only presence. The body was his now.

He wondered what the Doctor would say. Would he praise Zephyr's decision to help the family? Would he chide him for his selfish reasons for doing it? It didn't matter now. Zephyr opened his stinging eyes to a wall of human faces as the doctors scrambled to figure out why the boy before them was suddenly alive.

From now on, he was no longer what he had been for millennia. He was the boy. He was this single life.

"Sherlock?" the mother asked, tears spilling over her cheeks. They splashed onto his own face, the impacts like that of gunfire.

Zephyr blinked, everything so small now to his gaze. But he could see. He could feel.

"Yes," he said, rasping with lips he could finally call his, using a voice that was so human and yet so miraculous.

Sherlock.

His name was Sherlock; it was to be his own.

**0000**

When he actually _had_ to try to be one, he was not a good human, let alone a good child. He spoke too harshly to Mummy. He made her cry. He made Father angry. He made Mycroft cry, too. He never cried himself, not even when they took to disciplining him. He was a poor example of a son.

Sherlock learned quickly, as he always had, to act appropriately. He minded his parents, spoke when spoken to, and used smaller words after the first few years of realizing being _himself_ was wrong. He was just a boy in this body; he could not jeopardize his own position among them by acting as himself: a being far, far older.

In time, it worked. His Father still thought him odd, with his quietness, and Mummy was always too easy to upset, but they stopped staring at him as if he weren't supposed to be there. They accepted him as their son. It was exactly what he had wanted. Not their coddling, or the inane familial responsibilities he had now, but the position. He needed a place, a reason for being. This was acceptable.

The only one who didn't accept him was Mycroft. He was always sullen when Sherlock looked his way. He kept dark, judgmental eyes on Sherlock all the time, as if waiting for something.

"He's not _normal_," Mycroft complained to their mother, when he thought Sherlock couldn't hear. Sherlock—_Zephyr_—always heard. "Mummy, he's always acting older than he is. It's not normal. He always sounds like Grandfather."

"He's just trying to be a big boy," Mummy had replied, indifferent. She went back to her tea and paper, ignoring the plaintive stare her eldest and truest son sent her. "Don't _whine_, Mycroft. It is unbecoming."

Mycroft was smart. Very, very smart. Not as smart or as observant as something of Sherlock's nature was, but the human was clever enough to never trust Sherlock fully. He saw the differences. He feared them. Sherlock at first tried to convince Mycroft of his harmlessness, acting more childish in his presence, but that didn't work. At a loss, Sherlock reverted to ignoring the other boy; as long as the parents believed him, Mycroft was irrelevant.

Boarding school was one disaster after another. Sherlock did not like being away from the house; the important thing was to build relationships with those he'd be stuck with in this body's natural lifespan, wasn't it?

But that didn't work out either. Mummy disproved of dialogue between them. Sherlock tried to act more boyish, but she didn't want any of that, either. She scolded him when he played ball in the house. He stopped trying to be a little boy after that. He stuck to books, and Mummy seemed to accept that—granted that he brought home acceptable grades.

Father was always distant, but Sherlock saw he was like that to everyone, including Mummy. They only saw him at dinner, sometimes, when the children were home from school. Sherlock didn't know if Father actually liked him or not. He was tempted to listen in on his parents' conversations in the later hours of the night, when they thought he would be unable to hear them…

But he didn't. His abilities had not waned in the slightest since choosing this body. They wouldn't, naturally. He could have spied on the whole estate. He was still Zephyr, underneath the shell of Sherlock.

But he didn't. He felt odd using his abilities now. This body…went deeper than his normal hosts had. Without a soul in the way, Sherlock went all the way down into the body. He had a heartbeat. He breathed. He didn't have to, but without a soul or life support, it was _him_ that kept Sherlock Holmes alive physically.

He sort of enjoyed that. In a horribly disturbing way. He was certain that any other demon would be appalled at his quiet enjoyment that came with that realization; Sherlock didn't care what they would say, however.

He started to listen only with his ears, to see only with his eyes, and to do only what a boy's body could do. He became human through choice. It was the logical maneuver, to better fit in, after all.

When Mycroft was finishing mastering the piano, their parents handed Sherlock the violin. The instrument was intoxicating. Never had Sherlock attempted to learn music in any of his previous human lives, but after trying it in this one, he felt like he had been missing a whole aspect of the universe. He tended to his studies—which he learned as a human, no matter how frustrating it was—with great care.

The sound carried through his body like a low wind. He felt like the rocks he had blown against all of his lifetime while a spirit. It rocked him gently and took him into torrents of feeling. Music made him feel tremendous things and yet cleared his mind like nothing else ever would.

His interest in music somehow made things easier with his relatives. They accepted his skills with the bow as an excuse for his odd behaviors. His mother said it explained it all; he was just a savant, or perhaps autistic. Sherlock just ignored those comments and plowed through concertos and Stravinsky.

Pretending to be human was always easier when no one was looking. Even if he hadn't had things to hide, however, Sherlock preferred to be away from bustling activity. While he certainly enjoyed the company of humans—which was why he had chosen this life—he didn't like having to talk with the stupid ones. He liked to observe them from a distance.

When times did press him to become reclusive, it was always because of too many humans. Like when his parents had parties at their estate. There were always too many people then, talking and gorging themselves. While the parties were nothing compared to what Bacchus used to throw, the ignorant minds that collected there to discuss politics and paintings were too much to bear.

Sherlock took refuge upstairs whenever he could slip away from his mother's grasp. She knew she could only introduce him twenty or so times before he would disappear. That night, there were too many people. It felt claustrophobic in their mansion; that was not an easy atmosphere to create in the hollow building.

He found his mother's study empty and he slipped inside. If she tried to retrieve him to force him to meet more idiotic guests, he would hope going to one of her rooms would delay her finding him.

The office was colder than other parts of the house, but Sherlock did enjoy the space. It had a large window overlooking the back lawns. The bookshelves were glistening white and held many older books. He wasn't allowed, as a child, to touch them, but he would often sneak one away to read when he could. He had especially enjoyed the first edition Kant; he had lived a few doors down from the philosopher when that book had been written.

That night, he was feeling like Clausewitz. Sherlock stared up at the shelves and frowned when he realized that it was on the top shelf. His body was almost eleven now; it was a pity human bodies grew so slowly.

He could have just brought the book down with his powers, but he didn't think of it. He instinctually grabbed the back of the desk chair and brought it over to the shelves. It took longer, but this was what humans did.

He didn't even think to do it any other way at that point.

Sherlock placed his feet on the arms of the chair, giving him just enough height to grab for the book. It was just inches from his grasp when—

He gasped instinctively when the book knocked into the books in the row next to it. The domino effect would have ended with the books simply piling up at the end of the shelf, but there was something sticking out from the books. A blue, glass crucifix Mummy had kept out of children's hands wobbled and then was pushed into the air.

The crash made Sherlock wobble and jump down from the chair. He spun around, surprised more than anything else. He hadn't even tried to catch it, and while it would have been cheating with his powers, he realized in hindsight that that had been a moment where using his abilities would have been acceptable.

The blue artifact had belonged to Mummy's father—his grandfather, long since deceased. It was a family heirloom, and thus, irreplaceable.

Oops.

The glass had gone everywhere on the wooden floor. Sherlock froze. He considered his options; fetching a maid would result in Mummy finding out, and the sculpture would be lost without hope of repair. He wondered if she would be upset. Most likely.

With a quiet sigh, Sherlock grabbed up the pieces that cut into his hands. He waved his hand and the tiniest shards flew up in the air, and he caught them. On the desk, he dumped the bluish glass together and carefully recalled what the crucifix had looked like to try to fix—

"Ow!" he yelped, dropped a large chunk of glass, which flew across the desk. Sherlock looked down at his palm, where the cuts had already healed; the white skin was inflamed from something else.

Hissing, he flexed his hand. His eyes must have flashed black and he tried to put distance between himself and the broken crucifix. Normally, such things didn't affect him; he hadn't been created in Hell, after all. But this thing—it must have been blessed years prior. Now that he focused, it still _stank_ of holy water—

A stifled gasp; Sherlock froze.

It wasn't one of his parents. The voice was too soft and too young. He knew who it was before turning his head to face the doorway, where sounds of the distant party filtered in from a distance.

Mycroft was standing there in his party attire, halfway to the desk, caught in a mid-step. He was staring at Sherlock in open shock. Horror tinged his expression, but for a long moment, the human was struck speechless from surprise.

Sherlock stared back. He couldn't move or speak either.

Oh, no.

For all of his unwarranted self-importance, Mycroft was just another human. He was just a boy. He had the emotions of one and the fear in his face wasn't going away. The seconds ticked by in the cold office.

Gradually, Mycroft started to tremble.

"…What are you?" the teen asked, eyes wider than they had ever appeared on the morose boy's face.

He must have seen it—the wind? The smoking crucifix? The dried blood on his hands but no cuts to have caused it? He must have seen one of those things—or all of them. It was over.

Sherlock almost couldn't speak. Nothing ever made _him_ speechless. "I'm…" He struggled under Mycroft's intense gaze. "I'm Sherlock. I'm…"

Mycroft's eyes flashed with hurt. Fear. "Not human."

Lying never went well for him concerning his older brother. Sherlock weighed his options and knew that honesty was his only option. The teen had seen too much.

"No, I am not," Sherlock admitted at length. He gestured at his chest. "But in body, yes. In body, I am Sherlock Holmes."

"…In _body_," Mycroft repeated. He was shaking. "But what else are you?"

What could he have said? "…I am… a spirit," he said, struggling. He couldn't tell Mycroft everything .That was impossible. He could only—

"A demon," Mycroft snapped, eyes brighter than before. They went down to the desk and the shattered glass. "You can't touch the crucifix."

"No." Sherlock clenched is fists nervously. "I mean… yes. I am… that. But I was."

Mycroft's eyes shot up to Sherlock's face and the fear was replaced with anger. "Get out of him," the teen ordered. "Get out of my brother."

A strange sense of drowning filled Sherlock's chest. "I am… your brother," he said. "There has never been anyone else."

Once, a long, long time ago, there may have been… but nothing that would matter to the humans. They had never gotten the chance to know the human that was once Sherlock. They only knew of the false-one who replaced him.

The taller boy in front of him stared in anger, as if wanting to accuse Sherlock of more things. But Mycroft believed his statement, not because he accepted Sherlock's presence. Simply, this justified his suspicions and doubts he had had toward the younger boy Sherlock's entire life.

"You killed him," Mycroft said, startling Sherlock. The older teen was almost emotional, his eyes shining with odd intent. "You killed Sherlock, didn't you? You're the one… who made him sick."

"I _am_ Sherlock," Sherlock replied. He felt his human heart race. In this body, all the functions were _his_.

"No. My brother. You murdered my brother to take his place," Mycroft accused. His anger grew. "Didn't you?"

Sherlock didn't know what to say at first. He shook his head. "No. I did not." He didn't know how to explain the truth; it would most likely be rejected anyway.

"Liar." Mycroft shoved him further away, barely moving the false-human. Mycroft's face grew red and he stumbled back. "_Monster_."

The sane thing would have been to kill Mycroft. Or to leave this shell Sherlock had taken. There were other bodies out there. He could have become anyone.

But he remained where he was. Sherlock did not leave. He didn't try to stop Mycroft from leaving. He…

Staring up at Mycroft, Sherlock felt small. For the first time since he was created eons ago, he felt _small_.

"I won't tell Mummy. What you are. What you did," Mycroft said, voice shaking. His anger was ever present in his face. "Because she loved Sherlock. She always has. I can't tell her he was never there in the first place."

That wasn't true. It wasn't. Sherlock struggled against feelings that he shouldn't have had. "I'm…"

Mycroft made a bitter smile. "You are. You are Sherlock. All that we've ever known, isn't it?" he asked, voice stinging. "Let Mummy think she has a son. I know the truth."

Sherlock watched him, at a loss. "…Why not just make me leave?" he asked quietly. He could have run for their parents, or a priest or—someone. Normal humans would have fled in terror.

"Because you're my brother," Mycroft said. His words were piercing. "God help me. You're my brother."

The whole world felt off its axis. "Do you really believe that?" Sherlock asked, dreading an answer.

"I don't have a choice, do I?" Mycroft asked, pained. "You took that choice from me. From all of us."

He turned to leave. Sherlock found himself frozen next to the desk.

He wanted to stop the other boy. He wanted to scream at him. He was Sherlock. He—it was all he had left. He had given up nearly everything else to become this human life.

It wasn't fair.

"Mycroft," he called out, stopping the other human in his tracks.

Mycroft turned and stared at him from the doorway. His eyes were still alight with grief and anger. All human emotions. Sherlock kept their gazes equal, despite his growing sense of despair rising in his own chest. So oddly human.

"I'm sorry," he said, voice hollow, to his brother. "For what it's worth."

"You're a monster," Mycroft spat. "What do you know about apologies?"

Sherlock didn't say anything, because he honestly didn't know what to say to that. He knew forgiveness. He knew mercy. He knew of reasons why to apologize—eons upon eons of watching murderers, backstabbers, liars, and thieves who recanted had taught him that—but he never once apologized for something himself.

He said nothing. Mycroft left him standing there alone. Part of Sherlock was filled with irrational fear that the human would tell someone, but the other part of him was grateful the older boy would not be around the home much longer.

Standing in silence, Sherlock stared at the wall, ignoring the over familiar wallpaper, and saw a myriad of stoic family portraits staring back at him. He saw the lives he had accepted as his kin, his family, plus his own face. His face, the one he had stolen from a dead child.

He wasn't sorry. That was why Mycroft never forgave him, even years later; because he had known he wasn't.

**0000**

University was both a blessing and curse. Sherlock enjoyed learning, though much of the material he had been given in primary he had already known. He didn't like the school itself. Boarding school had been a disaster for his parents, though that one brief semester in public had been even worse. Sherlock desired to leave the Holmes homestead once Mycroft had graduated and visited Mummy more often. He had gotten a superb job at the capitol building, Mycroft had said, brimming with narcissistic pride that made Sherlock's skin crawl.

Politics had been a possibility Sherlock had considered—once. Back when the world hadn't changed so terribly and he hadn't attempted to make peace with his host family. Crowley had warned him to keep low after The Incident, however, and after living with humans for so long, the desire to rule over them faded tremendously; they were bad enough to be around as it was, he didn't want to be responsible for any of them. Father encouraged banking, or financial studies.

Sherlock chose chemistry. He had no desire to teach or to be an actual chemist, but he certainly did not want to become Mycroft. He chose roads that lead away from the elder Holmes brother, who's cold glare rarely faltered. Neither did Sherlock's in turn.

University had given him access to new people and new minds. He enjoyed it for that reason. He met interesting but average minds in his classes, like a jolly man named Mike Stamford who often tolerated Sherlock's oddness in exchange for lecture notes over tea.

Sherlock had discovered that the outside world knew little of intelligence. It was baffling as well as ego-boosting to deal with average minds. Most scorned him for his ability to trump them in everything they did or said, but some enjoyed his presence simply for what he was able to think of that they could not. It didn't make them _like_ him, but Sherlock soon learned that he enjoyed making the average human stare at him in awe.

He didn't know if it was the social power or the adrenaline rush—but making others seem stupid or awing them with wicked fast quips and statements made Sherlock feel alive. He enjoyed the outside world far more than inside the Holmes household. This was what he had been missing: all eyes on him. If he had to pose as a reclusive genius to get that, that was all too simple a request.

He didn't last in university any longer than he had in lower level education. This time, however, his parents could not force him to remain in school. They still argued about it and, much to the elder Holmes' shock, he left.

Leaving home felt bitter and all at once a fresh breath of air. Sherlock enjoyed his identity, but remaining under a roof where his brother was constantly watching him with paranoid eyes was too much.

He had enough wealth stashed in various bank accounts all over London (and all over the world) to last him multiple lifetimes, so finding the finances to live on his own wasn't difficult. Making it legitimate was harder. He had little credit to his current name and that was only a human problem. He had other problems that were more pressing.

Calling the angel for help… it made his skin crawl, but after what Crowley had told him about lying low, perhaps it was time. The Holmes estate had been plastered with wards after the 1990s and what it had brought to London had passed, so now that Sherlock wasn't living there, he had to find a new base of operations. He had limited resources when it came to that.

Mummy, naturally, tried to drag him home with incentives of money and apologies. It was unlike her and had baffled him for several weeks until he finally understood why she was so desperate to get him to come back.

She had never _lost_ someone, Sherlock realized. She had lived a perfect life free of loss.

It reminded him of when she had lost the original Sherlock. He had never seen the sobbing, broken woman she had been in that hospital room after he had gone home with them. That had been the closest she had come to losing one of her own.

Whether she realized it or not, that made Sherlock uneasy. He didn't feel guilty. He couldn't have. He was doing nothing wrong, except look out for himself.

He didn't go home that first year. He barely answered her calls. Once, his father had called, but Sherlock had pretended to be an answering machine. The message his father left was devoid of anything serious. Sherlock didn't hear a word from Mycroft.

And then, one day, he spontaneously did answer their calls, and it was Mummy.

He listened to her whole message, because she had been crying. She had good reason to, Sherlock decided, sitting numbly on his couch as he listened.

Montgomery Holmes had been sixty-two at his passing. The elder Holmes had been the family patriarch and had been a strict father. Sherlock had been incredulous at the thought of his father being felled by cancer. He hadn't sensed anything wrong with the human before.

He learned that the cancer had struck swiftly and without much warning. It had been a matter of weeks. The strong, proud man had died just when treatment had finally been attempted. He died surrounded by his wife and eldest son. Sherlock hadn't sensed anything wrong simply because he hadn't been around in that year's time to notice.

Sherlock attended the funeral. It felt odd to be back near his family, especially the extended one. They didn't have too many cousins; only one aunt and one uncle on opposing sides of the family. He couldn't not go, however. Mummy had begged him once and he had agreed without complaint. It felt odd to be there, but it would have dragged him into the dirt if he hadn't gone. He wasn't sure why.

Death was a part of his existence. He had seen the rise and fall of generations, of empires. One death meant very little on that scale. He couldn't tell that to anyone else. He watched them lower his father into the earth and wondered just what sort of paradise his father had for himself in the heavens above.

Quietly standing by the grave after it was finished, Sherlock hoped the man enjoyed it.

The ceremony was quick and indifferent. Mummy was no longer crying. She clung to Sherlock's arm the moment he arrived and he let her sink her fingers into his arm like claws. She stood firm and strong as ever, however, during the funeral and afterwards at the gathering. Her face was like stone; she was a strong woman. She always had been.

Once they were back at the house, Sherlock was grateful she had others to rely on. He wanted space. He found himself wandering his old home. Everything felt the same. Only small things were visually different.

He found his bedroom. It was untouched. All the books he had left behind and the lamp were in the same positions. The bed was made neatly. There was no dust anywhere on the desk or the window sill. Naturally. Mummy would have made sure the maids kept it clean, if only out of image purposes.

The floorboards creaked and Sherlock felt Mycroft enter the room. There was a short pause. Sherlock could hear Mycroft breathing quietly; he could feel the older man's hesitance.

"Sherlock," the taller man began. He had gained a bit of weight since the last time they spoke.

Sherlock turned around. "Yes?"

His brother looked as grim as ever. "I know we've not been on best of terms," he said. He kept his hands behind his back primly. "Sometimes I regret that."

Sherlock arched an eyebrow. "Regret what? Your dismissal of me, or simply the fact our familial bonds are lacking?"

"Both." Mycroft tilted his head and said abruptly, "You had been crying."

"What?" Sherlock demanded, surprised. He hadn't.

"Your eyes were red," Mycroft continued. "Back at the cemetery, after the burial."

Sherlock wasn't sure why that mattered. "And?"

Mycroft smiled faintly. "You were alone."

That made Sherlock stop. He stared at Mycroft, who seemed lost in his own thoughts. Sherlock… had no idea why any of this mattered. He…

Yes, he had been upset. His father had always been a difficult man, but…

Wasn't this _normal_? Sherlock had lost his father.

Wasn't grief something all manners of men felt?

"I would not think… I did not think this would bother you," Mycroft said, sounding amused. He wasn't in reality, but his method of dealing with stress was bad humor, after all.

"Our father is dead," Sherlock replied shortly. He felt a strong unease in his gut over this conversation. "I would think it normal that a son mourns his father."

"But you aren't…" Mycroft stopped himself. He chuckled and looked away. "Right."

"What's _right_?" Sherlock demanded, bitter. He stepped closer and glared at his brother. "If you're so convinced I am a monster, why remain silent? Why not get rid of me?"

Tense, Mycroft stared at his younger brother. Sherlock could see he was making the human uncomfortable. Even now, after all this time.

Sherlock smirked nastily.

"I can't tell if you're simply weak, or a liar," he whispered harshly, edging into Mycroft's space. "I can't tell which I despise more."

He pushed the stunned man aside and left.

**0000**

_London_

_September 2009_

Finding himself in a sea of humanity was more difficult the longer he was out in the world. Being Zephyr and being out in the world had been easy. Being Sherlock Holmes, a mere human, had been harder. He wasn't good at making friends. He had no real constants. All he had were strangers to bemuse or irritate. Sometimes that was enough.

But when being cooped up with Hudson was too much, or when the coffee shop owners impatiently kicked him out for harassing other patrons, Sherlock was left to wander. He had seen all of London's streets, so nothing was new or exciting to him besides the people. Even the people were getting dully familiar.

Disasters made things more interesting, but they were rare and in between. Sherlock sighed at the thought of another average fall day to suffer through.

He thought about getting a job. They were so boring and working in a lab would result in—well, monotony. Nothing was exciting. Nothing was changing. People were always changing, but they weren't a _job_.

Sherlock thought he had gotten lucky when he saw a crowd of people lingering at the mouth of an alley he knew held nothing of importance. They were concerned, excited people. That usually meant something out of the ordinary happened.

The police barriers were also a big indicator of something new happening. Sherlock squeezed in as far as he could go. He stared out at the alley, which was covered in police officers. The other side of the alley had also been closed off, with more people watching from the other side.

It was a crime scene of a murder. A woman was lying dead under a white sheet. The police were doing their best to keep pedestrians at bay, but Sherlock could easily see the edges of her denim jacket peeking out. The puddle of blood beneath her, the position of the limbs—clearly a stabbing. She had been young.

The crowd murmured lowly around him. Sherlock ignored the chatter and pondered over what was before him. He had seen plenty of crimes and crime scenes. He had never bothered to watch one in great detail. It seemed routine enough.

Murder.

Murder was… exciting.

Sherlock gazed across the crowd slowly.

The victims would change. The evidence, the clues, the _chase_—

It was certainly better than wandering the streets.

He pondered his choices. Police weren't always working on murder cases or cases that deserved his higher thought processes. It was a crass job, anyway. Mummy would kill herself if her son ever put on one of those pathetic uniforms. He wasn't an honorable creature anyway.

He saw the police talking amongst themselves. They were grim and uncomfortable. Didn't they see how lucky they were with this case? It was something extraordinary compared to theft or petty crime. They should have been grateful—

Sherlock froze when he saw a flash of red out of the corner of his eye. He looked to the opposite side of the barrier he was at. He saw a stout man with beady eyes rubbing a piece of denim fabric in his hands. Sherlock easily saw the speckles of blood on it.

Denim. Blood. Sherlock tilted his head, intrigued. The man hastily shoved it back into his pocket when the police moved in front of them. He kept his hand in his pocket with the fabric; his hungry eyes were on the body.

Oh, humans. Sherlock smiled. So predictable.

Reaching out, Sherlock stopped a familiar gray haired police officer in front of him. Greg Lestrade looked up in surprise.

"That man," Sherlock said simply, pointing at the stout, hungry man at the end of the row of observers. "That's the man who killed the woman."

"Wh-what?" Lestrade sputtered. He looked at the man, who hadn't noticed their conversation, and looked back at Sherlock, stunned. "Are you a witness?"

Lying would make the human believe him quicker. Normally, he'd like to drag this out, but Sherlock had plans that could only begin after this case was settled. "Yes. I saw the man put a bloodied piece of fabric into his front left jacket pocket, taken off the dead woman."

Lestrade gaped at him dumbly, but unlike his fellow police officers, he was quick. Sherlock waited patiently as the detective slowly turned and located the murderer. He slowly walked away from Sherlock and approached the stout man. The murderer only then noticed the detective's approach and tried to back away, but Lestrade was quick to alert his officers to intervene before the murderer got far. People yelped and got out of the way as the stout man started to shout back at Lestrade.

Sherlock felt a small thrill go through him as the shouting resulted in the stout man getting pinned against the wall, the denim fabric hauled away as evidence. This would be so simple to get involved with. Lestrade would trust him easily, as he had years ago with the angel and Crowley, and the result…

He had certainly found a job that paid with entertainment, Sherlock mused. Mycroft would be _so_ displeased.

He lingered as the crowd was pushed back out of fear and loud alarm; they hadn't realized they had been so close to the real murderer. That was _their_ excitement for the week. He waited patiently for Lestrade to finally break away from the handcuffed murderer, leaving him in the hands of another officer so he could spin around and find Sherlock.

"You," the police officer said, pointing at him. "You, what's your name?"

Sherlock observed the man carefully. Apparently, Lestrade really didn't recognize him.

"…Holmes," Sherlock offered. "Sherlock Holmes."

Lestrade nodded. "You're going to need to go to the station to give us a full report on what you witnessed."

"Naturally," Sherlock replied coolly, at Lestrade's surprise. He ignored the gesture to follow him to a police car. "I prefer taxis. I'll be right behind you."

While hesitant, Lestrade seemed to accept that. "Right. Ask for me, alright? My name is—"

"Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade," Sherlock interrupted. He shrugged at the curious look he received. "I read the papers."

Lestrade paused and gave him an odd look. "Do I know you from somewhere?" he asked, eyes blearily seeking out something familiar in Sherlock's face.

Sherlock smiled thinly. "I doubt it," he said coolly. Of course they had. It was many years previous, but he had been just a boy then, Lestrade not that much older. Aziraphale might have altered some memories, but Sherlock supposed he was just a difficult creature to forget.

Lestrade wasn't convinced, but said nothing. He turned and went after the other detective hauling the killer away. Sherlock tucked his hands into his pockets and watched silently.

Maybe.

Maybe, he had just found something interesting.

He caught up with Lestrade easily, surprising the gray-haired man by the side door of his car. The D.I. stared up at the taller man in surprise.

"Do you need a lift after all, Mr. Holmes?" he asked, eyebrows going up.

Sherlock tilted his head. "No." He reached into his pocket, pulling out a small notepad. He scribbled numbers down quickly. "But I do have an offer. My phone," he said, offered Lestrade the paper. He smiled again, just as faintly. "I would like to offer my assistance."

"You already have," Lestrade said, still confused. "We'll still need you down at the station to take your full statement, but—"

"No." Sherlock leaned a little closer, knowing his smile had become a smirk. He saw the confusion in Lestrade's eyes progress into a more pronounced unease. "I want to offer my assistance as a detective. A consulting one. I can help you solve the crimes you can't solve." Which he assumed were many.

Lestrade hesitated. "You mean… a private eye?"

"No." Sherlock suddenly didn't fight the urge to smirk openly as the idea firmly took hold in his mind. "A consulting detective, if you will."

"There is no such thing," the human said, bewildered.

Sherlock inclined his head. "_Now_, there is."

Neither of them knew where this would take them, but Sherlock felt for the first time in years a sense of _excitement_.

Perhaps… this would be what he needed after all.

**0000**

_London _

_January, 2010_

The park was emptier on the colder mornings in January. He enjoyed the loneliness sometimes, despite his ever present need for eyes to be on him. The case he had just solved the previous night had been an overwhelming experience—he had loved every single moment of it. Danger, thrills, unknown motives—he was _obsessed_ and he knew it.

Lestrade was still working on convincing his co-workers on the merits of allowing Sherlock into police business, but Sherlock would have been there with or without the detective's permission. He couldn't stay away now.

He had been going over the details of the murder and relishing that special moment of realization he always received when he _finally_ figured out the crime when no one else did. That was why he hadn't noticed Mycroft's car or presence until the man had stopped short of the park bench Sherlock was sitting on.

"My, it's a bit cold for a walk in the park," the older Holmes said conversationally.

Sherlock didn't spare him a glance. "I am not walking. I am thinking."

"I noticed." Mycroft shifted under his coat. "For one of your cases?" Of course, Mycroft would know about the cases.

"Perhaps."

His curt replies didn't deter his brother, as expected. Mycroft sat down on the opposite side of the bench and Sherlock quietly grit his teeth. There went his train of thought.

"Mummy said to say hello," Mycroft said abruptly. "She is dreadfully upset you stopped calling."

"I stopped calling back in university."

"Oh, yes, she noticed."

Sherlock glared at him. "She's not dead or dying. I have other things to attend to."

"Yes, your own life," Mycroft agreed with a quiet sigh. "She knows, as do I."

"That doesn't stop you from prying."

"Someone has to pry if you're not calling, Sherlock."

Arrogant as always. "Hmph."

They sat on the bench for several more tense minutes. Sherlock thought about leaving, but whatever had dragged Mycroft out of his shadowy tower of power in the capitol building would linger. If it would keep his brother from prying into his life anymore than he had to bear, Sherlock could tolerate infrequent set ups like this.

"What do you think of us?" Mycroft asked. "I've always wondered."

He was asking him as a supernatural entity, not as a man. Sherlock stared out at the grassy knoll.

"You're human," he replied simply. "Ignorant, stubborn, most of you unintelligent." He watched as a bird took off into the air from a tree's highest branch. "Dreadfully interesting."

"I suppose that's good," Mycroft replied, amused. "I had always thought you saw the world differently. Even as a human, you'd see the world in a very different shade."

Sherlock withheld a shrug. "Perhaps."

Silence fell again. Mycroft stood up after a few minutes and seemed intent to stand there, waiting for the proper time to say whatever he had wanted to say. Sherlock waited it out; he knew his brother's idiosyncrasies all too well.

"I never did thank you," the eldest Holmes brother said.

"For?"

Mycroft looked at him with an odd expression. "Giving mother and father peace."

Sherlock kept his glare level. "I distinctly remember you saying I had stolen from them, and from you," he replied coolly.

"I was a boy. An angry, scared boy, who was too foolish to see the truth," Mycroft replied. He shrugged faintly. "That you were a son to them, when all they ever wanted was that son."

The wind blew harsher for a moment. Sherlock watched as Mycroft looked at the ground and then back up at him. He seemed older. He looked like their father.

"You are my brother," Mycroft said. "I can only hope you see me as the same."

Sentimentality was not a Holmes characteristic. Mycroft was cold and indifferent, as was Sherlock.

Some things just needed to be finished, however. Sherlock didn't know if it was finished, what was between them, but he did know what had been settled.

He had settled it a long time ago, he realized.

"Only a brother would be as insufferable as you are, Mycroft," he replied simply as he stood up from the bench.

That made Mycroft's tenseness fade, just slightly. "Sentimental as always," the taller man said, smirking.

Sherlock tucked his hands into his pockets. "I've learned from the best," he replied calmly, turning away without another thought.

Leaving Mycroft there to his own thoughts, Sherlock walked back toward the city. He brought his scarf closer, shielding himself from the wind, which he was once a part of so completely.

With Crowley off in America now, Sherlock would take the angel up on his offer after all.

But first… he would need a roommate.

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* * *

**End **_**Building Down**_**.**

* * *

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Next, John meets Sherlock. John learns about the supernatural. John is not very happy about one of these things.

**A/Ns**:  
-As for Sherlock's origins as Zephyr… it took me awhile to decide on his exact nature, going for not-exactly-evil but still inhuman and indifferent to morality as a whole.  
-Zephyr is a reference to the Greek mythological figure, who was the western wind.  
-Yes, Lestrade and Sherlock have met before in the 1990s. You'll see that when we get to Crowley and Aziraphale's bigger moment, aka "The Apocalypse That Never Was." Yes, _Good Omens _happened in this universe.


	3. First Impressions

_**Small World  
**_"**First Impressions"  
**By Nan00k

John needs a roommate; what he doesn't need is a roommate who's eccentricity is less of a problem than his superhuman nature. A peek into the world of crime solving as well as the realm of the supernatural leaves the doctor an interesting choice. [Part of Small World; AU Superwholock. Demon!Sherlock.]

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* * *

**Warnings**: MASSIVE crossover, mixing of canons, alternative universe setting, dark themes  
**Disclaimers**: _Good Omens_ © Pratchet and Gaiman. _Sherlock_ © Moffat/Gatiss. _Supernatural_ © CW/Kripke.

* * *

.**  
**

**Six Weeks Ago  
London, England**

"You need someone else."

"No, I do not."

"I can't keep an eye on you all the time, Sherlock, if you insist on doing these detective cases."

"I don't need a keeper."

"Crowley—"

"Is in America, doing Lilith's business."

"Sherlock, listen to me. I know you're bored. If you act out and they see you, they'll find us both."

"Hell can't touch you."

"Maybe not, but my superiors aren't pleased with me either. The deal was to lay low here."

"And so we are."

"Sherlock, you need a better cover. You're a sore thumb out there, wandering around with the police. What if you have to slip cover to protect yourself? You need more than just the guise of a genius."

"…I'll get a cover."

"Make sure it sticks."

"Even if it is a human?"

"…Even if."

**0000**

**St. Bart's Hospital  
Smithfield, London**

Three suicides. A fantastical case, indeed. It was obviously a case. Human nature was terribly obvious sometimes. It was only the particular perpetrator or perpetrators that were mysteries waiting to be solved. Sherlock enjoyed the hunt for them immensely.

_Wrong. Wrong._ As much as Lestrade could be quick when it came to certain matters, he trusted police protocol far too much when it came to cases. It was a shame, really. His skills as a hunter could have given him the advantage over the average crook, but Lestrade had always been afraid of his shadow. That left it to Sherlock to pick up the pieces when the police failed to notice the signs of a fascinatingly dangerous new case.

Suicide epidemics. It was unheard of, even for Sherlock, who had quite literally seen it all in his time on Earth. Serial killers were fun, sure, but serial suicides prompted a deeper question. It couldn't be proven, but he could feel it in his gut. Time working for the police over the last year and a half had given him new insight into his senses. He could feel when cases would expand into something this absurd. This one would be a big one.

It was a worthwhile distraction, even as he waited for the police to catch on, or for the next body to show up, because goddamn that angel. Sherlock had been forced to escape into the outside world earlier and earlier to escape his nagging housekeeper's critiques.

Doing anything outside Baker Street, with all its lovely wards and sigils burned into the wood unseen, was a danger. He could have been having tea in the most insignificant of stores and be spotted by a member of the heavenly or demonic bodies. He stood out like a sore thumb, just like any demon would have to a creature of the supernatural.

No, the angel had insisted, this was different. Running off and doing cases was dragging Sherlock Holmes into the spotlight. What if he had gotten into the papers, with his face all over the place? What if one of his clients or targets had a connection to one of their enemies? Or even one of the hunters?

Sherlock knew all of those risks when he had approached Lestrade and signed himself up as a consultant. Being an idiot was Lestrade's job, not Sherlock's; he took all the precautions he could. He avoided cases that stank of magic or darker forces. He scouted those he interviewed when he could, just to make sure they didn't have a reason to identify him as Zephyr the West Wind.

Having a human around on those cases… what good would it do Sherlock? The human would have to be introduced to him and the world of the occult, and that was a danger in and of itself. Scouting for humans who didn't fear monsters was almost impossible to contemplate.

Crowley had jokingly suggested finding a hunter. _A hunter._ Sherlock all but threw his cell phone out the window after that conversation.

A human might have been a good deflective shield, true, but finding the right one who was trained for the job seemed an unlikely event. Sherlock knew the odds were against him.

So, he ignored his house lady and went straight to work. He was almost finished wrapping up the fish farm patricide case and he felt no need to hurry with it other than the uncle already being in police custody. It was a decent distraction from Sherlock's impossible task plus the wait for the next lead on the suicides.

Patience was never one of his better qualities. Mycroft would have said he didn't have any better qualities, but neither did Mycroft for that matter.

Sherlock had just settled into the lab tucked away in St. Bart's when the door opened and broke his solitude. He already knew who was hobbling down the corridor, of course; the gait was unmistakable. It was also six in the morning, so not many others would bother him or his work.

The human who had entered was Mike Stamford. An old university colleague. One of the few humans who knew Sherlock's name and bothered to remember it. A convenient thing, since he was the lead assistant at St. Bart's chemistry lab and was always willing to lend the school's services to "an old friend." Sherlock wasn't sure he qualified as one of those, but Stamford was intelligent enough to know Sherlock was not merely an amateur chemist. He knew what he was doing.

"Morning, Holmes," Stamford announced, shuffling into the room. He gained nearly two stones in the last month, Sherlock noted. Problems with the wife continued, clearly.

Sherlock kept his eyes on the skin cells. "Morning."

Dropping a pile of papers onto the counter, Stamford glanced deliberately at the quiet man. "You look a bit run down. Coffee?"

The detective looked up briefly at the human and considered him as a possible candidate for the angel's suggestion.

Stamford was fifty-six; overweight, bad knees. Sherlock sighed and looked away. Useless on the field.

Used to Sherlock's silence, Stamford went about moving through the lab. "You're in here real early. House lady kick you out finally?" he joked. His laugh died off quickly when Sherlock didn't acknowledge him. "Ha, sorry."

"No," Sherlock replied in a drawl. He switched slides. "But she has requested I find a roommate. How ridiculous."

Not a roommate in so many words, but Sherlock couldn't keep friends well. This one would have to be permanently attached to Sherlock's life somehow. Living together would have been the only option.

"Problems with rent?"

Sherlock hid an eye roll behind the microscope. "Yes."

"Well, I'm sure you could find someone real quick. Nice property, nice location."

"Ah, yes, but who would ever want me as a flatmate?"

He adjusted the dial just slightly—ah, yes, there it was. He jotted downs something on a tablet of paper without moving away from the microscope. This would help prove the daughter wasn't involved, but he still needed to clear the uncle.

He'd have to speak with Molly soon; bruises didn't materialize on their own. It was very convenient to have a source of corpses on hand, though it was nothing compared to medieval Europe. It was a pity he had never thought to start detective work back then, but honestly, it wasn't like there had been the sort of crimes that would have intrigued him this much back then…

Stamford had put his chart down and seemed like he had been waiting for something. Sherlock ignored the silence that carried.

"Well, if I hear anything I'll let you know," Stamford said, always bright. He was referring to the flatmate thing again? How odd. "I'm going to go grab some breakfast. Want anything?"

Sherlock underlined his verdict twice and shifted the slide down. "No."

That had been the one thing Sherlock had never been able to master growing up human—how to make and keep friends. Stamford was either enamored with Sherlock's intelligence or was simply so dimwitted that he honestly didn't mind Sherlock's briskness. For most people, they were turned off in time by Sherlock's inability to outwardly care about them personally. Actually, except for a handful of them, he really didn't care for most humans inwardly either.

His curse would always be the fact that no matter how much he analyzed and knew of human nature, he was not human in nature himself. Returning gestures was difficult to do as instantaneously as the humans could. How could he mimic what was a part of biology, after all? Emotions were so intricately connected to the body for humans; he could never truly learn to mimic it. It had long since proven to be a hindrance in keeping up appearances as a regular human, hence the need for the damn flatmate.

The lab door shut soundly. Sherlock worked on and already disregarded the conversation as irrelevant to his needs.

**0000**

With one slide of human skin cells under the microscope and waiting for the bruises to materialize downstairs, Sherlock paused in his examination to answer the buzz of his phone.

_You still at Bart's?_ -MS

Stamford. Sherlock considered the message for a careful moment.

_Yes. Why?_ –SH

_Stay there._ - MS

Sherlock paused. Stamford was an idiot, but he had enough sense not to bother Sherlock with inane requests.

He was already there, he reasoned, so waiting for any surprise from the chemist wasn't a setback.

Interesting.

**0000**

The lab door opened quietly. Two men walked inside, but Sherlock already knew who they were. Stamford's wheezy breathing was easy enough to identify. The mere fact that Stamford had brought with him another man, who was not a Bart's employee, could only mean one thing.

Sherlock glanced to the side. What he saw was enough.

Human. Wounded, yes. But the dependency on the limp wasn't permanent. The way he held himself suggested recent combat, so a hardened soldier.

That was a rare find in London. Sherlock hid a smile.

"Bit different from my day," the stranger said, looking around the room with vague interest. Not terribly concerned with actually paying attention to the lab or the equipment. Polite. Obviously had a medical background.

Army doctor, then.

Stamford was looking expectantly at Sherlock behind the stranger, waiting for Sherlock to make the first move, naturally.

It was an unknown situation, but Sherlock was curious. He glanced at Stamford. No jacket. The human's habits were easy enough to remember.

"Mike, can I borrow your phone?" he asked, focusing on his work in front of him. "There's no signal on mine."

"And what's wrong with the landline?"

"I prefer to text."

He knew the strange man—plaid shirt, simple worn jacket, clearly not an employee of Bart's—was paying attention to their dialogue, and to Sherlock. Perhaps Stamford had told this man about Sherlock's need for a roommate. He wasn't asking questions or introducing himself right away, but the careful testing of waters was fine by Sherlock.

"Sorry," Stamford said. "It's in my coat."

Naturally. It always was. Sherlock waited, carefully measuring the sample out.

It took only a few seconds. Polite; the stranger cleared his throat.

"Uh, here." He rummaged in his jacket pocket. "Here, use mine."

Sherlock turned and looked at the man.

"Oh," he said, gauging the honesty in the human carefully. There was little care about handing the phone over; a disinterest in it, as if it were only a sparse handkerchief. Sherlock stood. "Thank you."

"This is an old friend of mine," Stamford said, pointing over at the stranger. "John Watson."

John, a biblical name. Sherlock walked over to retrieve the phone and saw that the polite smile on John's face was a tad forced. Discomforted. By the association with Stamford? Or just over being introduced? He didn't seem like a shy man, however. Just polite disinterest in being there.

That wouldn't do. Sherlock flipped the hone open before asking, "Afghanistan or Iraq?" _Oh_, this phone revealed so much about the man. It was excellent.

Stamford just smiled.

It took a beat. John slowly turned his head back toward Sherlock, standing just a few spaces back, and asked, "Sorry?"

Sherlock turned his head to meet his gaze briefly. "Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?"

There was another silence, as John clearly took a moment to consider how Sherlock had known. Sherlock was used to it. He patiently typed the message out (_how did the police miss that green ladder, honestly?_) while John looked to Stamford for confirmation, but the other chemist just smiled. Molly entered the room during the pause.

"Afghanistan," John replied at length, shifting on his legs. "Sorry… how did you know?"

Sherlock cheerfully ignored the question by accepting Molly's offered coffee. "Ah, Molly, coffee. Thank you."

John stared out as Sherlock shooed the poor woman away. Sherlock took a long sip of coffee—she wasn't too bad at making it, far better than Hudson—before returning to his workstation.

"How do you feel about the violin?" he asked.

There was another pause, simply because John thought he hadn't been speaking to him. He was quick, however, to turn back and fix Sherlock with a bewildered expression.

"Sorry, what?" the human asked, shifting again on his leg, favoring the wounded one.

"I play the violin when I'm thinking," Sherlock replied simply. "Sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you?"

It drove the angel nuts, but Sherlock wasn't sure what to expect from John Watson, who, despite being obviously confused, wasn't reacting like most would. Calm, then. Sherlock liked calm humans.

John's eyes were squinted, but he just stared at Sherlock, waiting for more information. Rational. Perhaps not as quick as Sherlock had hoped.

"Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other," the detective continued with a short smile.

John looked at him, hard, before looking back to Stamford. "You told him about me?" he asked.

"Not a word," Stamford replied, amused still.

"Then who said anything about flatmates?" John asked, barely rhetorical, looking at the table before looking back up at Sherlock. The human didn't like awkward social situations. He wasn't comfortable with the idea of needing a roommate. Curious.

"I did," Sherlock replied, grabbing his coat. The results from the samples were as he suspected. "Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is just after lunch with an old friend clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan." He wrapped his scarf around his neck neatly. "Wasn't a difficult leap."

"How did you know about Afghanistan?" John asked, suspicious. Didn't trust Sherlock's ability to discern information. He struck Sherlock as a quick learner, however; he'd understand soon enough.

Sherlock ignored the question. "I have a nice little place in Central London," he told the soldier. "Together we ought to be able to afford it."

It wasn't about money, but for humans, money was always a simple, easy excuse.

"We'll meet there tomorrow evening, seven o'clock," he told John, stopping short of the man. He smiled briefly. "Sorry, got to dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary."

He moved around the human, who looked unsettled. A slow thinker, slow reaction. That could be a benefit. The louder humans were in simple situations, the more tendency they had to scream when things actually became dangerous.

Sherlock felt a great deal more confident about this match up. A calm former army doctor would be the perfect companion. Lestrade would be happy, the angel would be happy, and hopefully Crowley would stop complaining. With a medical history, perhaps this Watson could be of some rudimentary assistance during cases. Better than Anderson or his ilk, that was for sure—

"Is that it?"

The abrupt, loud question had Sherlock stop at the door. "Is that what?" he asked.

"We've only just met and we're going to go and look at a flat?" John asked, suspicious again visible. Careful humans were rare. It was intriguing.

"Problem?" Sherlock prompted, gauging his reaction.

John looked at Stamford, who said nothing, before looking back at Sherlock. The defensiveness was surprising, but when he spoke, John revealed he was gauging Sherlock just as much as the demon was him.

"We don't know a thing about each other. I don't know where we're meeting. I don't even know your name," he said.

Sherlock tilted his head slightly, enjoying the moment of disbelief before he proved someone wrong. Stamford clearly hadn't warned him. Good.

"I know you're an army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan," he began, giving John no room to interrupt. "I know you've got a brother who's worried about you, but you won't got to him for help because you don't approve of him, possibly because he's an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife." The growing look on John's face fueled the fire. "And I know your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic—quite correctly, I'm afraid."

John _stared_ at him.

"That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?" Sherlock asked, enjoying every second that passed, revealing a streak of surprise in the human's expression.

He wasn't expecting it to fall back into a hardened stare. It wasn't that surprising. A man of John's background—emotions were easy to reign in. Sherlock opened the door and felt a flare of confidence in the silence that followed.

This one might work.

"The name's Sherlock Holmes," he said, turning his head, "and the address is 221B Baker Street."

He winked. John just stared harder. Stamford waved and Sherlock let the door shut behind him.

If Watson showed up, Sherlock thought as he marched down the hallway pleased, this one might definitely work.

**0000**

**221B Baker's Street**

The flat was nice. Really nice, actually. Right next to a café, plenty of transportation around… it was really nice.

That's what made John uneasy. Not that the place was nice, or that the landlady was willing to accept such a low rent payment from them both for such an amazing real estate find in the city, but the fact that the whole situation was… too nice.

Kooky roommate, yes. The fact that the man had gotten such a good deal from the landlady—Mrs. Hudson was a pleasant woman, albeit a bit unsettling with the whole husband-thing-in-Florida—was suspicious. He assumed Sherlock was a private eye, but he lacked the professionalism for it.

Sherlock had already moved into the place. It seemed…well lived in. If he had needed a roommate, how long had he lived here before?

The mess was easy enough to fix, though John had his suspicions that Sherlock wasn't exactly the neatest flatmate. That was forgivable.

Just… the weirdness. John couldn't shake a deep sense of…not unease, but certainly wariness whenever he was alone with the other man. Sherlock was intimidating. And a little creepy. John was still trying to figure out how the man had figured out about Harry, or hell, even his leg.

"What do you think, then, Dr. Watson?" Mrs. Hudson had asked. She had pointed upwards. "There's another bedroom upstairs, if you'll be needing two bedrooms."

John had done his best not to react too much to that. "Of course we'll be needing two."

"Oh, don't worry, there's all sorts round here," she had replied, as if sympathetic. "Mrs. Turner next door has married ones."

_**Okay**_. At that, John had turned and sent Sherlock an exasperated look. The taller man skillfully ignored it. What the hell had he told his landlady…?

The information he had found online did very little to assuage John's doubts, but he had to admit, it was… interesting. A bit of bollocks about the deduction stuff, but John was intrigued by Sherlock's fervor. It was all very interesting. Odd, yes.

What wasn't so interesting as it was alarming was Sherlock's ability to read him. About Harry. His leg. His career…

_How?_ It was incredibly unnerving.

Just when he thought it couldn't get any weirder, the cops showed up. John had watched, astonished, as the police asked Sherlock for assistance on a case that sounded unnervingly like the case he had seen in the paper. Sherlock all but gave the cops the cold shoulder, but when they left…

"Brilliant! Yes!" the dark haired man had yelled, his face lit up like a child on holiday. "Four serial suicides and now a note. Oh, it's Christmas!"

It _was_ the case. John sat down cautiously and didn't say anything. Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe it wasn't. He had never lived with a private detective before. Maybe…it would be interesting to experience from the sidelines.

Anything was better than the rest home. John didn't have much room financially to shun this opportunity either.

Sherlock had jumped around for his coat and scarf, still gleeful. It was bizarre.

"Mrs. Hudson, I'll be late. Might need some food," the man said as he tied his jacket tightly closed.

Mrs. Hudson sent him a pleasant smile. "I'm your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper."

"Something cold will do." Sherlock paused long enough to send John a deliberate look. "John, have a cup of tea, make yourself at home."

With that, he was gone, out the door in a flurry of action.

"Look at him rushing about…" Mrs. Hudson murmured once it was just the two of them left. She smiled down at John and started to head for the kitchen. Her motherly attitude was choking. "You're more the sitting down type, I can tell. I'll make you that cuppa, you rest your leg."

"Damn my leg!" he yelled, fire in his gut roaring. He squashed it instantly, the rage nothing more than a phantom reaction. He immediately looked down. "Sorry, I am so sorry."

The housekeeper, despite looking a bit frail, had only jumped at the sudden exclamation. She didn't look like she begrudged his outburst.

"…I understand, dear," the woman said at length, sympathy in her eyes. It made John's stomach ache.

"A cup of tea would be lovely, thank you," he said, sighing heavily. Trying to exhale phantom burns didn't quite work.

Mrs. Hudson smiled like she had at Sherlock and sashayed out of the room. "Just this once, dear. I'm your landlady, not your housekeeper…"

John wanted nothing more than to…to… He grabbed a newspaper and saw the blaring headlines about the suicides. He couldn't even read anything. He wondered where Sherlock would even go. The man seemed to know what to do, even without a police guide.

What a strange man. No stranger than a wretch like John was now, of course.

An odd feeling crept up his back while he sat there trying to force his brain to compute printed text again. John looked up and saw a surprising figure in the doorway: Sherlock. The detective looked unruffled now and calm. He was watching John with a startling intensity. It was like being stared down by a statue. John stared back.

"You're a doctor," Sherlock stated in a way that wasn't exactly a question. "In fact, you're an army doctor."

John frowned. "Yes."

"Any good?" Sherlock asked.

A part of him suddenly stopped feeling apprehensive. "Very good," he replied automatically, without hesitation. He was damn good.

"Seen a lot of injuries, then?" Sherlock asked, a pallor vision in the doorway. As he spoke, the room seemed to grow smaller and smaller. "Violent deaths?"

Wars were all the same. "Yes." There was always violence and always death.

"Bit of trouble too, I bet," Sherlock said, something dark tinting his words. It wasn't threatening.

"Of course, yes," John said, steeling his nerves. "Enough for a lifetime, far too much."

There was a fire, a spark, in the base of his stomach. It had been there for months. It twitched and it tingled on days where things moved slower than they normally did. He had thought he had gotten used to it being there.

"Want to see some more?" Sherlock asked, eyes full of dark mischief.

That was all it took to make the spark jump into a flame. John didn't have the will power to resist it. Not then.

"Oh, God, yes," he said, meaning it wholeheartedly.

He never wanted anything more in his life.

**0000**

**Brixton, Lauriston Gardens**

Lestrade had just started to zip up his scrub jumper to head back up to the crime scene when he saw a familiar tall, dark figure saunter in from the outside. Sherlock Holmes was becoming a familiar sight, invited or not, God help him. Lestrade had meant to just nod his head in greeting, happy that the man had agreed to help him with this newest suicide, but he stopped short.

There was another man with Sherlock. A shorter, older looking gentleman with a cane. Even without the cane, it was clear this wasn't a police officer. Lestrade was immediately on edge. Sherlock didn't bring company. Sherlock didn't have company.

It wasn't Aziraphale or Crowley either. Lestrade's unease soon grew to actual discomfort.

"You should wear one of these," Sherlock said, pointing to the scrub suits. The unknown man agreed willingly and grabbed a jumper.

"Who's this?" Lestrade demanded. The stranger didn't look familiar at all. That never, _ever_ boded well.

Sherlock barely looked at Lestrade. "He's with me."

Lestrade turned and frowned. "But who is he?"

"I said," Sherlock replied, with a far cooler tone, "he's with me."

That could have meant not-human. But it could also have meant weird-human. But never normal-human. A hunter? Lestrade eyed the awkward newcomer carefully as they slipped on their boots. Sherlock didn't need to bother since, well, he never left any sort of trace anywhere, that inhuman menace.

This man, a Doctor John Watson apparently, seemed normal-human. Which made no sense. Lestrade felt nervous letting the man accompany them to the crime scene as Sherlock all but encouraged the man to be involved.

Sherlock had _insisted_ on having this Dr. Watson involved. He enjoyed Watson's reactions and questions, unlike how the demon reacted to Anderson or Lestrade's questions about obvious things. Sherlock didn't have friends, or colleagues. Not ones that didn't know about the truth. But Dr. Watson seemed new to it all…including Sherlock.

The man was staring at Sherlock, whenever he spoke, with awe. Lestrade knew that expression all too well. It made his stomach churn with unease.

Sherlock wouldn't do something wrong—not like this. Not with Crowley and Aziraphale involved, no matter where the freaking demon was at this stage in the game. Lestrade watched Sherlock carefully.

He hoped it wasn't what he thought this was.

Lestrade watched Sherlock pull his magic over the corpse—a Mrs. Jennifer Wilson—and Watson follow the information as best he could. Lestrade knew he should have been paying closer attention, but the suicides had faded in his mind.

After a few minutes of babbling, Sherlock did something he never did: he asked Watson to form his own opinion on the dead woman's demise.

_Okay, that's enough_. Lestrade cleared his throat and motioned for Sherlock to step out of the room with him. Anderson had fled, thankfully, and they were alone on that part of the landing.

Irritated at being summoned away from his corpse, Sherlock humored Lestrade long enough to step out of the room with him. "Yes?"

"What's with the guy?" Lestrade asked quietly, eyes going to Watson's back.

"I told you—"

Lestrade moved closer, voice dropping lower. "What's the deal with a _human_?" he asked in a hurried whisper.

Sherlock's eyes darkened. For a moment, Lestrade almost expected the man to become angry. "…You can assure yourself, Lestrade, that there's nothing's wrong with this," the demon replied, voice far too careful.

It would have been a mercy to let it go. But Lestrade had been raised a certain way. That way had mostly involved never trusting monsters.

"You know I can't just…" the police officer began, eyes going between Sherlock and Watson. It just didn't seem right.

"I needed a flatmate. He offered. I offered the trip down here. He was interested." Sherlock's pale lips quirked upwards and his eyes darkened. "Mrs. Hudson wholeheartedly approves."

_Mrs. Hudson?_ "Oh, bloody…" Lestrade ran a hand over his face, exasperated. "Who the heck would be interested in a murder scene?" Besides consulting detectives.

More importantly, what the hell was this _flatmate_ nonsense? Those two unnatural walking disasters didn't need human roommates. They didn't need to pay a mortgage and they needed privacy far more. This was about something else.

"I don't know, Lestrade," Sherlock replied, voice going higher in sarcastic pitch. "Maybe he's just as disturbed as _you_ are."

The jab made Lestrade scowl. "Sherlock."

"What?"

There was a brief moment of his father's words screaming in his ears, that Lestrade should have just forced the demon to behave. Demons were one thing, however. Sherlock had made plenty of allies in high places (never friends, of course.)

"Don't do anything stupid," Lestrade said, the call to act fading as he realized he didn't have much say in policing Sherlock's actions anyway. He was so far beyond the law that it was laughable whenever Anderson or Donovan begged him to arrest Sherlock.

Sherlock's smirk widened as he turned back to face Watson. "Or force your hand? My dear Lestrade, why would I ever want to do a thing like that?" he asked, mocking. He stepped away and went back into the room, all too ready to listen to Watson's basic deductions about the crime.

He was being too lenient.

Both of them were. The leniency on Sherlock's part was more troubling than Lestrade could really handle at this point.

"Pink!" Sherlock eventually exclaimed, leaving the others floundering, as usual. The case had a much sourer feel to it now that Lestrade had other worries than serial suicides to think about.

Watson followed the consulting detective like an eager puppy. It reminded him of the Young boy all over all. Lestrade grimaced as Sherlock took off and Watson hobbled his way after him.

It wasn't just Sherlock who had to be worried about repercussions. Lestrade tucked his hands into his pockets and exhaled sharply.

He certainly hoped Aziraphale knew what the hell he was doing with this.

**0000**

Somehow, they wound up having dinner together. John was still trying to figure out how that happened.

He was still uneasy about everything that had transpired in the last twenty-four hours. First, he had seen a dead body. Then, he was abducted by some apparent nemesis that Sherlock had. And then, of course, Sherlock continued to amaze and terrify John every step of the investigation John somehow found himself wrapped up in. A serial suicide investigation.

To think, last week, he had been complaining about being bored.

John had never expected it to go as far as it had. Texting a murderer? It was enough to make him jumpy.

_You don't seem very afraid._

The nemesis man had said that with a smile, as if he were issuing a challenge. John wasn't a competitive man, but there was an undeniable thrill that went through his gut as that night went on. It wasn't a happy thrill. Death, mystery, and potential criminal activities didn't incite happy feelings.

But there was thrill. John knew it was probably counterproductive to the work his psychologist had put into him, if any existed at all, but right now, he didn't care.

_What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?_

John stared across the table at his dinner partner, who was in fact not eating anything. He knew nothing of Sherlock Holmes. Not really. The man was bizarre. He seemed too intelligent to be a nobody, but yet, he didn't seem to really exist anywhere. He stood out like a sore thumb. He didn't belong to the environment they were in.

_Since yesterday, you've moved in with him and you're solving crimes together._

Technically, he hadn't quite moved in yet, but maybe the nemesis had a point. Maybe it was a bit fast.

_You're very loyal, very quickly._

John took a sip of drink.

He was. Maybe that wasn't such a good thing.

Sherlock _was_ sort of an ass.

"Do people usually assume you're the murderer?"

"Now and again, yes."

John stared down at his left hand. It had twitched a bit, but it was mostly still for the duration of the meal.

Maybe it was just coincidence.

Whatever his issue was, he was there, with Sherlock at that restaurant, waiting for a murderer to show up. Genius needed an audience. Sherlock was more than enough evidence to sway John to believe it.

Sitting there, John had time to contemplate things. He had time to ask questions. He avoided obvious ones, like why everyone assumed John was his bloody date. Questions about real people with real arch-nemeses were more common, if such conversation was common at all.

Conversations about boyfriends, however, made John realize that no matter how much of a genius Sherlock was, John was a ruddy idiot with a foot stuck solidly in his mouth.

He could handle pretty much anything else that came up after that.

Or so he thought.

"There," Sherlock announced. "Taxi, stopped."

John turned in the restaurant seat and saw what Sherlock was talking about. A taxi, just like any other in the city, waited for them.

And suddenly, they were off. John found himself running for the first time in nearly a year out the door and onto the street. Sherlock did a spectacular rebound off of a car, but that barely fazed the detective, who flew across the London street in hunt of a blue taxicab.

John ran after him, though the soldier hadn't a clue why.

"I've got the cab number!" John called out fruitlessly when they stopped at where the taxi had just been.

"Good for you," Sherlock replied, eyes squinting shut in fierce concentration. "Right turn, one way, roadwork, traffic lights, bus lane, pedestrian crossing, left turn only, traffic lights!"

_Oh, my God_, John thought in the briefest of seconds when the other man took off. _He has a GPS in his brain._

He didn't understand why that wasn't as shocking as it should have been.

John braced himself and followed.

They ran up stairwells and shoved past pedestrians. John was already out of breath by the time they got to the roof of the first building, but it wasn't from the exertion of running. His heart was on fire, but his lungs felt like they were encased in ice. His nerves sparked under his limbs.

_Most people blunder round this city and all they see are streets and shops and cars. When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield. You've seen it already, haven't you?_

John kept up, barely, as they tumbled down a fire escape. The whole metal structure creaked as Sherlock jetted down. His feet hardly touched the stairs while John's steps sounded like miniature cannon fire.

_Your therapist's got it the wrong way round._

Sherlock jumped the cap between the fire escape and another rooftop effortless. John had to throw himself. He lost time between them in the effort, but he made it. He stumbled briefly and started up running again.

_You're not haunted by the war, Dr. Watson._

His blood rushed in his ears. He could hear himself panting. Watching Sherlock jump another gap that seemed too far, John slid to a hesitant stop. He stared at the gap and then back up again at Sherlock, who was disappearing into the night.

John swallowed against the lump in his throat and backed up to get a running start.

_You miss it._

His leg didn't make the ledge. He slammed into the concrete and his knee clanged against a protruding metal pipe. John wheezed and hauled himself back up onto the roof.

_Welcome back._

John was all the way upright on the roof when he saw Sherlock nearing a gap to jump onto the other. It was too far a jump. John took off running, only faintly alarmed when he saw Sherlock wasn't aiming for the fire escape.

"_Sherlock_!" he shouted, alarm flaring when Sherlock did jump—and missed the other roof.

It was three stories down. John suddenly ran faster and nearly went head over heels over the ledge.

He made it just in time to see Sherlock reach the ground.

And land neatly on his feet.

John stared.

Standing upright, Sherlock brushed his sleeves and looked upwards. Through the hazy night air, John felt the gaze land on him directly. He could have imagined cold gray irises piercing across that distance and past the darkness that hid them.

The eyes were dark, though. Not shadowed.

They were black.

Suddenly, all the rush died out of John's body. He stood at the top of the fire escape, and for a moment, motion was a foreign idea.

It was something else that compelled him to slowly, slowly descend the stairs. Sherlock hadn't moved. He was watching John intensely. It didn't even look like he was breathing.

John felt his limbs tighten up as the distance between them closed. He was the one doing that, however. It was his choice to get closer. He felt a tiny voice, the kind of voice that rings out in the mind of a hunter going up against prey larger than himself, in the back of his head telling him it was a stupid move, but he ignored it.

_The bravery of the soldier._

In a matter of seconds, John was two meters away. Their target was getting away.

John didn't really care about that, not right then. Sherlock was still watching him. The only reason John knew he was alive was because he could see the faint outline of hot air being exhaled from Sherlock's nose.

His eyes were still black as coal, too.

"What are you?" John asked, the question blurting out before there was any time to filter or amend it. It felt too harsh out loud. His throat was burning and John took a deep breath to try to cool it down.

Sherlock didn't flinch. He didn't react.

"Odd," the detective abruptly said. His voice was rougher than it normally was.

"What is?" John asked. He cleared his throat, his mind flashing back to the fall and the subsequent discoveries. "That I noticed?"

Sherlock's head tilted to the side. His lips twitched. "That you're not screaming," he said. He sounded vaguely amused. "Most people do. When confronted with something beyond the realm of this world they are most comfortable with, or expect, most people scream."

John swallowed again. He felt numb all over.

"…I'm not most people," he said lamely. His eyes went to Sherlock's, but he couldn't keep his gaze there for long. "But… what…?"

Sherlock smiled. "Guess."

"I… I wouldn't know," John admitted.

He didn't know anything like this. This wasn't…normal. It wasn't…

His _eyes_—Sherlock's eyes. John stared down into two soulless, black eyes. There wasn't any white left; just shiny, almost-liquid black holes that reflected the street light boldly. The rest of Sherlock remained the same; his smile was new, however.

"You have two options, Dr. Watson, so do make wise of the one you choose," Sherlock began, in the same cool voice as always. The eyes pinned John to his place. "Choice one is obvious: run. Don't mention me, don't think of me, or what you saw, and you may just have an ordinary life. Most people do, when this occurs. It hasn't happened often, but I can say, this is the choice most choose."

John felt his heart racing. "…And the other?" he asked, unable to tear his eyes away from Sherlock's.

He flinched when the black disappeared, almost like a second lid, and Sherlock's cold gray irises returned.

"Run with me," Sherlock said.

"What?" John asked, startled again.

Sherlock smiled. This time, the coldness was gone. It was almost an encouraging gesture. "We have a taxi to hunt."

And with that, he took off once more into the street. John stood there for a second longer, his mind racing, his heart pounding—

And then he took off after him, belatedly realizing how much easier this was without the bloody cane.

**0000**

After everything that night, they got the wrong taxi, too.

_You have to be kidding me_, John thought. He wobbled onto the sidewalk and felt the adrenaline rush leave him like a draining reservoir. _What a night._

Sherlock was in a great mood, even after they ran from the police. John had been up for a second wind, but he was almost at his limits when they finally stopped a few minutes from home.

John glanced at his companion as he regained control over his breathing. "You're… a mutant?" he asked, causing Sherlock to glance at him. "Super hero?"

That earned him a smirk. "I have been called many things in my long life, but never a hero, John," he replied. He spoke casually, even when his words were enough to sober John completely. "I am a monster. I am the very opposite of something pure, or holy."

There weren't many words that fit that description. None of them made any sense. "…a demon?" John ventured. He scoffed and tried to shake the icy feeling out of his hands. "Oh… come on. Y-you have to be…"

He swallowed hard when Sherlock slowed and sent him a long look. John gradually stopped walking in turn.

"Really?" he asked, knowing he sounded pathetic.

"Trust your gut, never your mind, when dealing with this sort of thing," Sherlock replied bluntly. He frowned when John barked out a laugh. "What?"

"You? Of all people? Telling me to not trust my mind?" John asked, chuckling. It wasn't a totally hysterical laugh. Not really.

Sherlock rolled his eyes—his normal, not-creepy eyes. "I would _hope_ most people wouldn't trust their own minds. They're so tiny and impractical, however, when it comes to the paranormal. It's better for them to go with instinct in those specific cases."

"Ah, well, there it is…" John frowned. He slowly started to walk, Sherlock following suit. The streets were almost deserted then, which was a blessing. "A demon. Really. Well… ah… why are you doing this?"

"Doing what?"

"Hunting down a criminal?" John tucked his hands into his pockets. He was still numb. "Shouldn't you—shouldn't you want them to get away with something like murder?"

Sherlock stared at him. John suddenly felt smaller.

"Sorry," he offered lamely. He didn't understand, but he knew he had crossed some sort of line. Maybe.

"I am…"

Sherlock stopped walking. John stopped and turned around to face the other man. Sherlock looked out of place, as usual, but this time, he seemed more alone. A beacon out on the sidewalk. Terribly alone.

"I am Sherlock Holmes. The world's first and only consulting detective. I hunt not for the sake of justice, but for the sake of hunting," Sherlock said, voice as sharp as his eyes as he met John's gaze. They were entrancing. "There are many sorts of monsters out there, worse or less so than myself." The gray eyes narrowed a fraction. "I may try to hide what I am… but I do not deny it. There is no reason."

It was practically a declaration. John didn't know what for, though. He watched the other man—other creature—and took it all in. It was too much to decipher then and there on the street, but John Watson was a practical man. He didn't try to sort out details when the details only complicated things.

He didn't mind complicated things, as long as he could take them as they were. Because there was nothing wrong with complicated.

"…All right," John said.

Sherlock flinched. "All right?" he repeated.

"Yes." John nodded. "All right."

"Just all right?"

John smiled. "Yes. Just… all right."

It took Sherlock a moment to react. He kept their staring contest on for a moment longer before turning away. They were at 221 Baker's Street already. John climbed up the stairs after him and mimicked a mostly-real collapse against the yellow walls of the foyer.

John looked up at the ceiling and didn't think of anything for a few seconds.

"You are brave, Dr. Watson," Sherlock told him, turning his head a fraction to look at the doctor.

Perhaps the mysterious nemesis had been correct, John thought in a daze.

_Bravery is the kindest word for stupidity, isn't it?_

John knew he should have run the other way, but he had never called himself the smartest man. He now knew such a being and it was right there next to him, at any rate.

"I'm curious," John replied, letting his head rest against the papered wall. "Besides… that was fun."

Sherlock turned and gave him a surprised look. John stared back and only offered a smile.

It took a moment, but both men laughed.

At least until Mrs. Hudson came rushing in.

**0000**

"You can't just break into my flat!"

"And you can't withhold evidence!"

It sounded like an argument they had had before, John mused, though nothing about the situation was amusing.

"It's a drug's bust," Lestrade said, all too happily.

Definitely not amusing. John watched as Sherlock failed to deny such a claim as being possible. Demons on drugs. Wonderful.

"This is childish!"

"Well, I'm dealing with a child."

John tried to stay out of everyone's way. He didn't want a part in—in this. How odd that he could stand running across rooftops, but this was uncomfortable. John frowned as he watched Sherlock pace and snarl.

"I will let you in on this case, but you can't go off on your own!"

He had to wonder what sort of relationship he and Lestrade had. They didn't seem like enemies, but maybe it was another case of a nemesis for Sherlock. Did any of Sherlock's enemies know about his eyes? Maybe they didn't. Maybe only friends did. Maybe that's why Sherlock didn't have any friends.

This night was starting to spiral out of control in so many different ways. John rubbed his eyes. He was exhausted.

"…we found her suitcase in the hands of our favorite psychopath," Anderson was saying.

"I'm not a psychopath, I'm a high functioning sociopath," Sherlock snapped back.

John dropped his face into his hands while no one was looking.

"We found Rachel," Lestrade said, catching both Sherlock and John's attention. The name that had been scratched onto the floor by the victim.

As John had vaguely suspected, it was Wilson's daughter. It would have to be someone worth emotional value to carve a name into the floor with one's own nail.

"Her daughter?" Sherlock abruptly asked, his face filled with confusing disgust. "Why would she write her daughter's name?"

His confusion was confusing. Rachel was dead, regardless. John sighed quietly as he understood. It was an important name to Jennifer Wilson, then. Obvious—

"That's not right," Sherlock said, which surprised John. "Why?"

"Why would she think of her daughter in her last moments?" Anderson asked, sardonic. "Yeah, sociopath, I'm seeing it now."

John wanted to back Sherlock up just as a default on that, but…

"She didn't think about her daughter!" Sherlock insisted. "She scratched her name onto the floor with her fingernails. She was dying. It took effort, it would have hurt."

"You said that the victims all took the poison themselves, that he makes them take it," John said, trying not to focus on how tired he was. "Maybe he talks to them. Maybe he used the death of her daughter somehow."

"Yeah, that was ages ago!" Sherlock asked, sounding practically insulted. "Why would she still be upset?"

There was a lull. John saw Sherlock continue to look insulted until the detective eventually noticed the silence and the stares. Lestrade looked away and Anderson looked smug.

John pursed his lips. Oh. Right.

Demon.

Sherlock only took a few seconds to realize he had misspoken, but apparently, he didn't know in what way.

"…Not good?" he asked, glancing subtly toward the doctor. As if asking for confirmation for something. Like his startling lack of empathy.

John swallowed hard. "A bit not good, yeah," he replied, trying to keep his cool.

"Yes, but if you were dying, if you'd been murdered, in your very last few seconds, what would you say?" Sherlock asked, eyes flashing brightly.

Memories came back harder and easier than John liked.

"'Please, God, let me live,'" John replied, without having to think much past those images.

Sherlock made a condescending expression. "Oh, use your imagination!"

John's jaw tensed. "I don't have to," he said simply. He kept his gaze equal with Sherlock's.

It took him a moment, but the genius eventually frowned and backed off. He went to muttering about cleverness and how Jennifer Wilson wouldn't have wasted her last bit of strength on sentimentality. It left the rest of them behind.

The police kept doing their search, real or not. Lestrade was talking with his underlings and Sherlock tried to move away to ramble about passwords. John watched him and thought.

The revelations he had endured that night were starting to hit home in a way he hadn't expected it to.

Somehow, black eyes became much more real.

There was talk of taxis and Anderson's face and Jennifer Wilson being clever. It was all too much. John missed the running.

"Don't know why it matters, if she still cared about her daughter or not," Sherlock was muttering. The computer was loading the GPS signal.

"Don't you know how to empathize with someone? Don't you know morals?" John asked. He wasn't sure why he was pushing this. He wondered why Sherlock was allowing it.

"Morality is no different than any other social convention," Sherlock replied shortly. He waved a dismissive hand before tucking it again under his chin. "Science, math, history, religion—I know it."

John hesitated. "But do you _understand_ it?" he asked, daring to lean closer to the space the detective had just been pacing in.

Sherlock stared out past his bridged hands. "You can learn to understand anything, John," he said quietly. "Nothing is impossible to learn."

"Even to be human?" John asked, before he could think better of it.

Sherlock stopped. He turned slightly and gave John a long look, his freezing eyes full of energy and promise of fast-paced motion he always demonstrated on a case. John stared back, realizing he was being just as closely observed.

Whatever Sherlock was about to say in reply to that was interrupted when the computer dinged. Instantly, the cold eyes were replaced by ones on fire; Sherlock devoured the information on the screen—before stopping once again.

"It's here," he said, sounding like he didn't believe it.

John was left flummoxed like the rest of the police and there was a mad dash to re-search the flat for the missing phone. It had to be there, logically. But Sherlock stood in the center of the room with his hands on his head, muttering furiously about how he couldn't have missed it. He never missed things. John could imagine him seeing everything happen at once better now; it was easier to imagine now that he knew the man was superhuman after all.

In the midst of it all, John wondered just how much Sherlock did see in the world around them. He wondered if the murders, or the threat of the murderer still being out there, actually bothered Sherlock. Probably not. But maybe—it wasn't too far of a stretch.

_You can learn anything, John._

Even fear? John wondered. He caught himself staring at the computer in a daze.

Did demons feel fear—or grief?

And then, all at once, he realized something was wrong. Very wrong. Turning, John sought out the few familiar faces—Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Donovan—

John froze.

"Where's Sherlock?"

**0000**

Humans were fantastic—both as victims, and as predators.

"Taxi for Sherlock Holmes."

It was brilliant. It was a brilliant ploy, a brilliant trap. This single mortal man—a dying man, all hollowed out on the inside—had led Sherlock on a round-about trip for days. All along it was a cabbie. Sherlock felt the customary rush of glee when he was finally face to face with his target. It had been a good run. He had enjoyed this one.

Until the human smiled and gave him an ultimatum out there on Sherlock's own doorstep. A challenge. A dangled lure.

"If you go and get the coppers now, I won't run," the cabbie said, too calm, too casual. "But you're not going to do that. Because I didn't kill those four people, Mr. Holmes. If you get the coppers now, I promise you one thing—I will never tell you what I said."

Sherlock, for a brief moment, felt a flare of danger rush through him. Did this human not understand whom he was challenging? An ant dangling threats to a hungry spider? The gall.

But the cabbie didn't know, nor did it matter. Sherlock's scorn over the bold challenge was too weak to resist the lure. His one human weakness—curiosity.

He held back, however, long enough to remember where he was and who was back inside Baker Street.

"No one else will die, though, and I believe that's what they call a result," Sherlock said, watching as the cabbie moved around to the driver's side door. Aziraphale would have called it a result, at least.

The cabbie's smile was rank with confidence. "You won't ever understand how those people died," he said, as Sherlock's weak reluctance cracked even more as the truth in those words sank in. "What kind of result do you care about?"

Sherlock never claimed to be full of self-restraint. He was a demon, after all.

The man thought he could do whatever it was he did to the human victims. The cabbie thought he could get Sherlock Holmes to kill himself. Sherlock was fascinated. He couldn't resist seeing the human try.

So, he got in the cab and they drove off. Sherlock's heart beat faster with anticipation. This was a rare case indeed to make him react this strongly, even when there was no way this human could have killed him. But that wasn't the point of the cabbie's methods, of course; that was what made it so alluring to an immortal creature like Sherlock.

"How did you find me?" he asked, eyes wandering. The cabbie was clearly a single father, or an estranged one. The shaving cream told him the latter was true.

"I recognized you! As soon as I saw you chasing my cab—Sherlock Holmes," the cabbie said, still far too cheerful. Arrogant for a human of his age and health. "I was warned about you."

Sherlock met his gaze in the rear-view mirror immediately. "Warned?"

That was intriguing. And alarming.

For the first time in several months, a tiny sliver of apprehension entered Sherlock's mind.

"Who warned you about me?" he asked, deliberately indifferent.

The cabbie grinned. "Someone out there who's noticed you."

Noticed?

Oh, dear.

Sherlock contemplated the implications.

"Who would notice me?" he asked, gaze sharper.

"You're too modest, Mr. Holmes," the cabbie replied. "Got yourself a fan."

Fan. Potentially a sarcastic remark; an implied threat. A rival, perhaps. Actual danger…? Possible.

Sherlock sat back and watched the human carefully.

Maybe this wasn't about a clever serial killer after all.

They ended up at the Roland-Kerr Further Education College. A discreet, distant location. Perfect for a murder. Sherlock was particularly amused when the gun came out. It wasn't even _real_.

"Oh, dull," he sighed. Maybe the cabbie didn't know his secret. Suddenly, he felt let down.

"Don't worry," the cabbie promised. "It gets better." He let the gun drop. "Don't need this with you, 'cause you'll follow me."

_It had better get better_, Sherlock thought. He willingly followed the cabbie inside the college. The cleaners must have been on the other side of the school, since the second floor was deserted as they commandeered a room.

**0000**

Why did they put up with Sherlock Holmes?

_Because Sherlock Holmes is a great man._

John looked around the empty apartment room and wondered.

_And someday, if we're very, very lucky, he might be a good one._

What did that mean, really? John had known plenty of good men. He had patched them up and watched them die. He had even saved a few, but not enough. He knew what a good man was.

He had never really met a great one, however.

Time passed on in the silence. John stared at the laptop and scowled. It had been twenty minutes already and there was nothing. Not a text, not a phone call, not a trace of the great detective.

Impatience and anxiety tugged at his nerves. John looked out at the door and fought the urge to just go running out onto the streets. Sherlock would probably come rushing in any minute, coat swinging, chastising John for being too slow to follow.

Maybe waiting would be best—

_Ding._

John turned and looked down at the laptop. The map was flashing. Slowly, John realized the phone had stopped again.

He knew where the murderer was.

A chill flashed through his gut and John abruptly felt what could only be a premonition. If he knew where the murderer was, then—

"Sherlock," he said out loud. He spun around and grabbed his coat.

**0000**

The man's insistence on Sherlock dying that night was almost adorable. His desire to find risk in the mundane routine he had devised for himself and his victims was equally pitiable.

The pill was not exactly unexpected. The second one was, but Sherlock had to hide a smile of his own. The man might have been a genius amongst humans. He was nothing to a creature like Sherlock. Poison wouldn't kill him, even if both pills were tainted.

That fact wasn't what kept Sherlock in his seat, waiting for the story to come out of the old man. He was waiting for answers to more important questions.

"Sherlock Holmes, here in the flesh," the cabbie said, gleefully shifting in his seat. "That website of yours. Your fan told me about it."

Yes, the "fan." Sherlock watched the cabbie carefully.

"You are brilliant. You are a proper genius," the cabbie said, eyes twinkling.

There was a story here. A bigger one than just two bottles.

"You risked your life four times just to kill strangers," Sherlock began, eyes narrowed. "Why?"

The cabbie, as if sensing the deflection, nodded at the table. "Time to play."

"Oh," Sherlock said, already turning the tide, "I am playing."

Piece by piece, he disassembled the dying man's life. The estranged children, the clothing, the aneurism—and so came tumbling out the sad man's excuses for murder.

"Because you're dying, you've murdered four people?" Sherlock prompted.

The cabbie's smile finally dropped. "I've outlived four people," he said. His scowl suddenly flared back up into a smirk. "That's the most fun you can have with an aneurism."

Quite the way to look at it. The human had a point, albeit not a very politically correct one. Sherlock let him have that.

"No, there's something else," Sherlock said, still leaning forward on the table. "You didn't kill four people because you're bitter. Bitterness is a paralytic."

If there were any force that could drive a murderer besides anger or hate—

"Love is a much more vicious motivator," Sherlock concluded. It was. For whatever reason, for humans, it was. "Somehow, this is about your children."

And that's how it came down to money.

Why did it _always_ come down to money for humans? It was always the dullest answer for their crimes.

But for this case, it didn't end with money. What was most intriguing was where the money was coming from.

"Not much money driving cabs," the cabbie admitted, softer. "My kids won't get much when I die."

"Not much money in serial killing."

"You'd be surprised."

There it was. The lure. Sherlock leaned closer. "Surprise me," he said, mind on full alert.

The cabbie's smile grew smug. "I have a sponsor," he admitted, leaning closer.

For a full two seconds, Sherlock was significantly distracted.

"And just _who_ would finance a serial killer?" he asked, all at once obsessed.

What an idea. What a superb, fascinating, thrilling idea. If he were a lesser sort of creature, Sherlock might have left this mess in front of him right where it sat and go after this new twist like a dog would a stick. It could have been larger than anything Lestrade brought to his attention. This could have been a case to sate Sherlock's ever-increasing appetite for mystery—

"Someone who doesn't mind riling up a demon or two," the cabbie replied, all too pleasant.

Sherlock froze.

The cabbie grinned. "Weren't expecting that, were you, Mr. Holmes?" he asked.

No. Sherlock slowly clenched his fists. No, he had not. He had almost forgotten the posed threat.

It was back, bolder than ever.

"Who is he?"

"You're not the only one to enjoy a good murder," the cabbie said, smirk incessant.

It could have been another demon, but for what reason would one seek Sherlock out now? An angel would never bother with theatrics like this. Crowley had slipped up somewhere.

Unless it was a hunter.

Sherlock fought the urge to tear out the man's throat on instinct.

Perhaps he should have called Lestrade in when he had the chance. Aziraphale should have picked up on this. Their cover was compromised.

"You're not just a man," the cabbie said. He didn't seem scared at all. Death made humans so damn irritating. "But there's so much more to them than that."

More than one? A band of hunters? A group of demons? Sherlock tried to find a clue in the man's words, but nothing stood out.

"What do you mean?" he asked, holding back on his emotions. He needed answers. Now. The case was no longer important, no matter what his curiosity demanded. He had to focus.

"There's a name that no on says." The cabbie shrugged. "And I'm not going to say it either."

With that, Sherlock was done playing games. He grabbed the pathetic excuse for a gun and crushed it in his hand. The cabbie flinched back and Sherlock glared as he flicked metal and lighter fluid across the table in disgust.

"Well, this has been very interesting," he said coldly, standing. "But if you don't start explaining who you are working for, I will have to force you to."

Even under his shadow, the cabbie didn't falter. "What's the matter?" the human said, the only sign of duress in his eyes. It wasn't from fear. Sherlock couldn't read it. "Can't figure out which bottle is what?"

"I have had _enough_ games," Sherlock began. He couldn't ignore this threat. Something had leaked. It was time to plug the hole—

"Or maybe you haven't," the cabbie said, interrupting his thoughts. "Maybe you just can't figure it out."

Sherlock froze.

"The great Sherlock Holmes, the great detective," the cabbie continued, willingly taunting a being ten times his worth and strength. "The demon who can't outsmart a little dying cabbie."

Sherlock stared at him.

When had he gotten this weak? Especially when it mattered?

"Come on," the cabbie goaded. "Play the game."

It was a game.

Humans always came up with the best games.

He reached out and took the bottle closest to the cabbie.

"I bet you get bored, don't you? I know you do. Creature like you, so clever."

He could have taken the pill. It didn't matter if he chose wrong. It wouldn't kill him. But there was no reason to take the risk, to encourage a murderer to kill himself with the other pill.

"But what's the point of being clever if you can't prove it?"

Sherlock stared at the little white pill and considered.

"After all these millennia, and you're still just a wild animal addicted to _this_. You'll do anything at all, to stop being bored. You must be bored, since you have seen it all."

There was no way that he was wrong. Because if anything, humans were understandable. They were easy to read. They were predictable—

Sherlock dropped the pill at the sound of a bullet crashing through two glass panes and then solid flesh—and the cabbie dropped.

All at once, the thrill of the chase died and Sherlock realized his greatest mistake.

He stalked over to the downed human bleeding out on the floor. A gunshot to the shoulder; too close to the heart. The man was dying. Luckily, his life wasn't quite through being useful.

"Okay, tell me this," Sherlock began, crouching over the human, who was wheezing. "Your sponsor—who was it? The one who told you about me, my fan? I want a _name_."

He had to know, to be able to tell the angel and Crowley. They had to know who their enemies were, with the End creeping up on them once more.

Sherlock Holmes was not done living the life of Sherlock Holmes. No hunter, angel, or demon would take that from him.

The cabbie shook his head and looked away. Sherlock snarled.

"Who hired you? !" he asked, baring his teeth.

Who dared to confront a demon? Who dared to seek him out? Who dared to threaten the West Wind?

Sherlock stomped onto the bleeding wound and the cabbie howled a name out, only once.

"_Moriarty_!"

A name that meant nothing to him. Not now, at any rate.

Dissatisfied, Sherlock stepped back and watched the man struggle to breathe. It would have been a mercy to kill him then.

But he didn't. Sherlock didn't kill humans anymore.

He was not known to be a merciful creature either.

The cabbie took one last breath and then it was over. Sherlock stared at the corpse as red and blue lights flashed through the windows and splashed onto the walls.

_Moriarty._

**0000**

Sherlock Holmes was officially the strangest man John Watson had ever met, human or no.

Because really, the eyes had been one thing. His brother was something entirely different.

"Was that man really your brother?" he asked, glancing back repeatedly as they moved away from the crime scene. Being away from the flashing lights and potentially observant police officers was better for John's nerves, but being watched like that by a creepy guy in a suit wasn't soothing either.

All of the mystery, all of the talk of archnemeses, all the bluster—and it had been Sherlock's brother?

Since when did demons have _brothers_?

Or…a _Mummy_?

Sherlock sighed, overly dramatic. "Yes, unfortunately," he replied, as if it was a painful annoyance just to admit aloud.

John couldn't really see Mycroft's face any more in the shadows. "Is he… you know…?" he started to ask, before he realized how stupid the question was.

Sherlock, thankfully, caught on and didn't chide him for his curiosity. "Human? Yes, he is utterly human, the bore," he said, again with disdain. "Don't pay him any mind."

His brother was human, but Sherlock…wasn't? John stopped trying to look back but still felt Mycroft's distant gaze on him.

"Consider me adopted, if that helps," Sherlock added with a shrug.

John nodded vaguely. "I see." Well, he would have to believe it. He certainly wasn't going to be seeking Mycroft out to confirm it later.

Sherlock wanted to go get food. He seemed entirely healthy and content. John didn't want to dwell on what had happened forty minutes ago, so he was glad for a distraction.

He was even more glad that Sherlock had kept silent about it before when it had mattered, with Lestrade. John felt the heavy weight of the pistol in his pocket sink down more against his side.

Still, as much as he would like to pretend the burning sensation in his hand had nothing to do with the adrenaline rush he had experienced earlier, and that neither feeling felt _good_—he still had to dwell on the incident a little bit longer.

"Really, though, are you alright?" he asked, squinting at the taller man. He had seen a flash of white, the pill, but he hadn't asked if the cabbie had done anything else. Then again, he had no idea if Sherlock could even _be_ hurt.

"Oh, yes, I'm fine," Sherlock replied dully. "Not a scratch."

Despite not exactly trusting the man's honesty, John nodded. "Good."

Adjusting his scarf, Sherlock suddenly gave John an odd look. "You knew I wasn't human, and yet you were concerned enough to…act," he said, voicing a question beneath that statement. He was asking why.

"I…" John hesitated over an answer.

He had seen Sherlock with who could have only been the serial killer. He had seen a flash of white in Sherlock's out stretched hands, which could have only been a pill. It had been instinctual.

His spontaneous reaction really had nothing to do with being a human or something else, John realized. It had everything to do with the fact a man he knew was facing down potential danger.

"The poison wouldn't have killed me," Sherlock said.

John frowned. "Oh."

"Yes…" Sherlock cleared his throat. "At any matter, thank you."

"Why? It didn't matter anyway," John said, curious. Why would he be thanking John for something that wouldn't have affected him? Sherlock didn't seem like the sort of person who'd be thankful for that.

Sherlock shrugged. "Isn't that what you people say—it's the thought that counts?"

John didn't reply. He took it at Sherlock being nice not for the sake of being nice, but for the sake of being nice to John. Why, he was still trying to fathom.

Some of Sherlock's odd behavior made sense now, when he thought back to their previous encounters.

_Breathing. Breathing's boring._

The amount of nicotine patches.

The intense stare that felt like it was piercing his soul. Maybe it was.

Some things, however, were still questionable about Sherlock's nature. Like why Sherlock Holmes had asked for a human roommate and why he tolerated a man like John.

When he finally asked then, Sherlock surprised him once more.

"I need someone to cover me," Sherlock explained.

"Cover you?"

"Living as a genius at the residence of a kindly old woman isn't going to work now that I'm working on criminal cases outside the home," Sherlock said, turning his head to look back at the police gathered around the college. "I might slip on the job, or use a power that will make it easier to spot me out in the open. It is more likely people will notice my, shall we say, noticeably inhuman actions through conversation. Those moments do linger in peoples' memories most, so I may be exposed incidentally through investigations."

John hesitated. "What do you need cover from?" If a pill full of poison or serial murderers didn't scare him, what else was out there?

"There are other demons and monsters, John," Sherlock said, as simply as he might have explained away his brother's presence. "Far worse than me. I've spent the last few decades hiding from them the best I can."

Suddenly, the vacancy at the prime real estate of 221B Baker's Street made so much more sense.

"…Oh." John swallowed, a nervous feeling settling in his gut now. "What good would having me along do, though?"

He could shoot, obviously, but he was…just…human. Didn't that, well, _matter_?

"I need to look normal. Having someone else along, a human, helps me to blend in more. Apparently." Sherlock said that with a sneer, as if someone else had told him that. It intrigued John more than the threat of whatever Sherlock was hiding from did. "Any remaining oddness I might let slip will hopefully be shielded by your normalcy. In theory."

John _was_ painfully plain. "I see."

"It's not the safest job," Sherlock said, looking at him pointedly.

The serial murderer lying dead half a mile back was sort of a giant example.

"…You think I'll take it anyway?" John asked, glancing back at the demon.

Sherlock, in turn, smiled smugly. "How's your limp, doctor?"

John glared. "Shut up." Sherlock just laughed.

The detective led them both on toward the end of the block and John was left to ponder it all in silence. It was a lot to take in and digest. His hand was still buzzing from where his gun had fired.

"Sherlock…" he began.

"Hmm?"

John sent the demon a careful look. "So, these cases… are something that I'm going to have to get used to, living with you and Mrs. Hudson?"

Sherlock didn't hesitate. "Naturally."

"Oh…" John nodded slowly. "Good."

It was good, in a way that John really couldn't explain.

"You are taking this well," Sherlock said, eyebrow up.

"Well, it's like I said before," John said, hands in his pockets. "It's all fine."

Sherlock held his gaze for a moment. "Good," he said. He suddenly picked up his pace and smiled. "Come on, I know a short cut."

John only took a few seconds to watch him go before smiling to himself and following. His hand still itched.

Somehow, it was all fine.

**0000**

**Two Days Later  
221B Baker's Street**

"So, is he staying?"

Sherlock sent the fidgety old woman a strained glare. "Not that you need to concern yourself over it," he replied. "But, yes, he is."

John was out finalizing his departure from the veterans' housing. Most of his belongings had already been moved into the spare room upstairs. Sherlock had been enjoying his last few minutes of solitude with his violin, when of course, the angel had to interrupt.

"Oh, that's wonderful!" Mrs. Hudson said, hands clasped together. "He seems like such a nice fellow. But, ah, you're sure...?"

"I'm sure _what_?" Sherlock asked, plucking a harsh note.

Mrs. Hudson sent him a kind look, but he could see a more severe glint in her eyes. "Sherlock, I know you're doing your best, and I am sincerely impressed you've done as well as you have, even without Crowley or I interceding," she began, "but perhaps befriending a human for this, bringing him here as a roommate, is, well, a bit rushed. I can only keep so many humans in the dark, so you need to make sure he's the right kind before you let him live among us—"

Sherlock sat back and bowed out a few staves of Mozart. "He knows."

The older woman paused. "…Already?"

"Yes."

Mrs. Hudson stood up straight. "My, and he hasn't gone running?" She beamed; her reaction was exactly opposite of what Crowley's would be. "If he wasn't human, I'd say you've found yourself a keeper!"

"_Do_ shut up, angel," Sherlock snarled.

"No need to get nasty," Mrs. Hudson sniffed. She put a hand on her hip. "Please do exercise caution, for both of our sakes, Sherlock. I can keep us off the radar at least until—you know—but I'd rather not have to explain to my superiors why a human _and_ a demon are running about my property together. Or having Lestrade involved again. That was just unnecessarily messy."

Hunters were always a potential threat, but not more than the angel's _friends_ were.

"You don't need to tell _me_ about exercising caution," Sherlock replied, scowling. "We've survived this long, Aziraphale, due to my intellect."

"_Or_ rather our collective luck. Never mind." Mrs. Hudson sighed. She suddenly perked up. "Do you suppose he likes biscuits? I'll put a pot on while he moves on in..."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and collapsed back into the seat. "Ugh."

Now, he just had to call Crowley.

Later, he decided. He picked up the bow again and smiled to himself.

A companion, a new mystery, and an older case solved—

Things were radically looking up.

.

* * *

**End **_**First Impressions**_**.**

* * *

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Next, a boy meets a demon at a crossroads. Somehow, it does not go according to plan.

**A/Ns**:  
-Yes, Lestrade knows about Sherlock now. There's been about a year's jump between this segment and "Building Down." More to come on that moment in another one shot, "Skeletons."  
-Yes, Mrs. Hudson = Aziraphale. Wait for ittttt…  
-Where is Crowley? Why are Aziraphale and Sherlock living together? Where does Moriarty fit into this? Lestrade? Etc etc… just wait for more installments. All shall be explained.


	4. Crossroads

_**Small World  
**_"**Crossroads"  
**by Nan00k

Once upon a time, Moriarty was a boy. That ended the day he had met a crossroads demon. Part of the Small World AU series. Superlock with a bonus.

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* * *

**Warnings**: MASSIVE crossover, mixing of canons, alternative universe setting, dark themes  
**Disclaimers**: _Supernatural_ © CW/Kripke. _Sherlock_ © Moffat/Gatiss. _Merlin_ © BBC One, et al.

* * *

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**Outside of Thatcham, Berkshire, England  
March 1989**

The day after his father died, all James got was a rattling box and a tiny yellow note.

He was nine. He hated being nine. It was worse than being eight and definitely worse than being ten. He hated going to school and running into the older students. He hated his overworn clothing that were from charity shops and everybody noticed. The only reason James still went to class at all was because he liked the books (even if all of his teachers were idiots, too.)

Then again, without Carl Powers around, his usual tormentors had drifted away. Mummy had thought about moving back to Dublin, but they had stayed in Thatcham. Just like da would have wanted.

Da wanted a lot of things. More than James had ever imagined, though by the end of his life, it had become clear that there were things amiss for his father. The professor had wanted things that could no longer be.

So, he passed on his job to James. James was not exactly pleased with playing errand boy for a dead man, but perhaps, it was what he owed his father.

Among the things in the box, he found instructions. He had to get a bunch of things that made little sense to him—like a picture of himself, cut out of a stiff family portrait, and dirt from the graveyard. He had to kill the neighbor's cat to get a bone from it. He threw the rest of it into the creek so mummy wouldn't find out, again. She didn't know about the job, because da had told James in the note not to tell her.

James had never been a good son, not really. He was only good for mummy when she cried. He just hated the sound of it, really. Da had never had the patience for him. Then again, his father was never home, so it didn't really matter if he was patient or not.

And now, there James was, following his father's last orders. They weren't truly orders, James considered as he walked along the empty roads that lead out of their small village. The note was a vague mess of suggestions. A dare. A challenge.

No one challenged a Moriarty and won. James would win. He always won, in the end.

He found the last thing he needed just around midnight. He had just passed a farmhouse, but it almost pitch black outside. The moon shone overhead as James dug a shallow hole in the middle of the road. It had to be in the direct center, his father's note said in his bold scrawl. James threw away the spade he had stolen from the neighbors and stood over the hole. He had buried the bone, picture, and dirt inside a tiny box.

Standing there in the chill, James hugged the larger, cardboard box his father had given him. It felt like a fool at first, when nothing happened. He was patient, however. He was always willing to wait to get what he wanted. He had had to wait _days_ before he heard about Carl's unfortunate swim in London.

Ten minutes later, he heard the sound of footsteps on the dirt road. Turning, James saw a pretty brown-haired woman walking his way. She looked very different than most ladies around Thatcham. James liked her.

"Are you lost, little boy?" the woman asked, walking over to him with a coy smile. She reminded him of ladies on the telly.

"I'm not lost," he said immediately. He hugged the box tighter.

"It's awfully late for you to be out by yourself," the woman said, her smile brightening.

"Mummy doesn't care when I go to bed," James said, shrugging. She was never even home when he was supposed to go to sleep. She went out drinking a lot. Especially after da died yesterday. Mummy was probably passed out on the kitchen floor by now.

"I'm sure she doesn't," the woman said, though that didn't make much sense to James. She moved over to stand in front of him and the covered hole in the ground. "What's your name?"

"James," he answered. "Who are you?"

The demon smiled. "You can call me Lyra if you want."

"You're pretty," James said, after thinking about it for a moment.

Lyra laughed. "What's a cute little thing like you doing out here, James?" she asked, speaking sweetly. Adults did that a lot around children. James thought it was useful.

"I…" He shifted on his feet and hugged his box. "I thought this was how you summoned demons."

There was an odd little light in Lyra's eyes. "Oh," she said, speaking in a hushed voice. "Now, who told you a secret like that?"

How he knew was easy enough; his father had told him. James wanted to know how his father found out about it, but he knew he couldn't waste this opportunity asking that question.

"My da made a deal here," James said. He swallowed. "And now he's dead."

"I see," Lyra said, still smiling sweetly. "And now you want to make a deal, too?"

"I don't know." James squinted at her in the dark. "What is a deal?"

"Didn't your da tell you?" Lyra asked, tugging at the cheap necklace around her neck. Her nails were a shiny red color.

"No. All he left me was a note and a stupid box," James said, looking down at the box in his arms with a frown. "Mummy said it wasn't fair that he died, but da said that it was fair, that he made a deal."

Lyra made a sympathetic sound. "Oh, he did, didn't he?" She moved closer, speaking lightly. "I remember your da. He was a handsome fellow. Dark hair, dark eyes… just like you."

"Mummy says I do look like him," James said, looking back up at her.

"I think so, too," Lyra said, smiling.

James froze. Her eyes were glowing red now.

"Were you the lady he made a deal with?" he asked, his heart beating a little faster. "Before I was even born?"

Lyra's smile widened. "I am."

"But he made a deal with a demon. That's what he said," James said. His hands dug into the cardboard box, squashing the one side. "You don't look like a demon. You're pretty."

"You're sweet, James," Lyra said, giggling. She tilted her head and her dark hair framed her face. "But your da was right. I'm a demon."

"So, you were the one who killed him?"

"No, no, no," Lyra said, tsking. "We crossroads demons, we don't kill anyone! We're just the ones who help people like your da get what they've always wanted. We tell them the price and they take it." Her eyebrows went up. "Your da wished for big things."

James frowned. "But he died."

"Well, all he wanted was how to find the cave," Lyra said, shrugging. "Even though I can grant a lot of things, I never promised him that he'd be able to get into it."

A cave. Right.

"Oh," James said, speaking carefully. "Well, that's not the problem. I just meant that he had to die because of it."

Lyra stopped. "…what do you mean, James?" she asked, expression frozen.

James shifted from foot to foot. "He said—he said that after ten years, he had to die. How did he die, if you weren't the one to do it?"

"James," Lyra said, interrupting him. "Tell me. Did your father get into the cave?"

"Tell me how he died," James insisted.

Lyra was suddenly closer and her eyes were blood red. "Did your father get into the cave?" she asked, voice sharper.

James stared up at her and didn't move. "You tell me first," he said, his heart going pitter-pat under his ribcage. This was exciting.

There was a distinct pause. Lyra looked ready to do something violent.

"…My bosses." Lyra smiled, though it wasn't friendly anymore. "They send dogs to escort the soul down into Hell. Didn't you hear the dogs when they came for your da?"

"He wasn't home when he died," James admitted. He looked down the southeast road. "He died out on the hills."

"He was sure it was a good cause," Lyra said. She spoke with urgency now; she probably didn't realize the show of hand she had given by acting so desperate. "Now, tell me, Jimmy."

"Don't call me that," James said, making a face. Carl had called him that and now the whole school used the nickname.

"James," Lyra snapped. She stood directly in front of him now and loomed. "Did your father get into the cave?"

There was a lot to be figured out from her question. This was about a cave, then. An important one. Interesting.

"…why does it matter?" James asked, biting his lip. He hunched his shoulders and looked down at the box, thinking of his father. "Not even the cave was worth him dying. He left mummy all alone. And me."

He heard Lyra breathing. She was still agitated, but in the few seconds of silence she let him have, she seemed to calm down.

"Why did you summon me, James?" the demon asked, eyes as red as blood when he looked back up at her. "I can't bring your father back, if that's what you want."

James shook his head. "No, I knew that. He said… he said that I shouldn't contact you at all."

"Then why did you?" Lyra asked. She looked hungry.

"I don't know," James said, hesitating. "I think…"

He pondered his reasons. He didn't have to do anything, really. His father's note only had one command, and he didn't necessarily have to summon the demon and speak with her this long to comply with it.

He just... wanted to find out why. He was immensely curious.

"I think it's because I want to continue what he started," James said aloud, looking up at the demon.

Lyra grinned. "Well, you already have a head start, little one, if your da really did get into the cave," she said. Her smile was mean. "Somehow, I doubt it."

James' brow furrowed. "Why do you doubt it? My da, he was a smart man. Even if he did die."

"If he was so smart, he wouldn't have died at all. All those years, toiling away, trying to find it in the rolling hills," Lyra replied, sneering. "Maybe if he looked just a little harder on his own, maybe he could have found it without dying."

"I think he could have," James said. His father wasn't perfect, but he was certainly smart. James was going to be smarter than him, though.

"But he didn't," Lyra said, shaking her head slowly. She wagged her shiny nail at him. "He didn't, James. He wasn't smart enough."

"He was. He just…" James inhaled and exhaled sharply. He picked his words carefully, watching her reaction; he remembered where his father had always ended up working more than anywhere else. "He didn't have time to keep going east to look."

Interestingly, she just smirked. He had picked well. "Did he tell you why he came to me?" she asked. "Because he wasn't patient. He wanted to find it first, before his colleagues did. He didn't understand the power he was hunting down, but he knew more than his friends did. I told him about the Levels, but surely he could have figured it out himself. Such a pity."

James stopped. Lyra smiled nastily.

"I wonder how long it took him to realize that he could have found it on his own, if he had just _tried_," she said, edging closer like a beast to wounded prey. "You must have wanted to help him with excavating the cave, like a good little boy, after he made the deal. He'd take you out there, didn't he? Did he take you when he found the cave? Did you see it, James?"

Tilting his head, James stared directly into her eyes.

"Somerset," he said.

Lyra froze. "What?"

"The only place da took me to were all these tiny little towns in Somerset," James said. He smiled; of course it would be Somerset. His father had never let him go into the hills, but let him and mummy stay in those towns while he was gone. "The cave is located around the Somerset Levels, isn't it? Or the Mendip Hills?"

After making the deal, his father must have been so mad. He would have come close, surely, to finding the cave in the Hills. All of his scholarly work for naught—it had been so close. James felt bad for his poor father.

The demon in front of him looked alarmed.

"You said your da found it already," she said, moving back slightly.

"No, I didn't. You just thought that's what I meant," James told her. He shrugged. "You're very pretty, but you're not very smart for a demon. That makes a lot of sense though, that they'd be in the Hills. Da almost had it, didn't he, before he went to you?"

Lyra made an inhuman sound, like the snarl of a dog. "_You little brat!_" she howled, upon realizing he had tricked her.

She took three steps closer and James' heart leapt. The demon looked ready to rip into him with her hands. He wondered if she could, but he did not really want to find out.

"What if I wanted a deal?" he asked, speaking quickly. "Don't you want my soul?"

Lyra stopped dead in her tracks. Da had written a demon would never refuse a deal if they could make one. No matter how angry she was, Lyra seemed to be bound by those rules, too. Or maybe she was just greedy, like da had been.

"…and what, _little boy_, do you want?" the demon finally asked through gritted teeth.

"First, I have a question," James said.

Lyra looked murderous. "_What_?"

"What's in my box?" he asked, holding up the rectangular box still held in his hands.

Confusion flickered across her face, but Lyra sneered at the question. "Your da's ashes?" she asked, a snarl in the back of her throat.

James lowered the box in surprise. "How did you know he was cremated?"

Lyra grinned. "Because your mummy didn't want you to see where the dogs ripped your da's soul out of his chest," she said, stepping closer.

"Will dogs rip out my chest?" James asked quietly, eyes wider.

"Only if you make a deal," Lyra said. She raised her hand toward him, as if to reach inside his body and take his own soul. "And if you don't make one, I may just rip you apart _myself_."

"Well," James said, "you never did answer my question."

"I don't care what's in your _stupid box_!" Lyra screamed, her face contorting with anger and her eyes blazing like fire.

James frowned. "Oh."

He dropped the box and it landed at his feet with a heavy thud. The contents rattled wildly, especially since he had kept his grip of the lid and let the cardboard fly off into the wind out of his grasp. Lyra blinked, again confused, when she looked down at the exposed box.

A pile of whitened bones, like the plastic ones at Halloween, sat there. They were still glistening with accelerant. Lyra's eyes widened.

"What the hell is that?" she asked, hissing as she took a step backwards.

"The only thing my da gave me after he died," James said. "Bones."

He brought out a lighter from his pocket and held it up.

"Your bones, Lyra Lewis," he said, "from Swansea."

Lyra's red eyes widened into pools of blood.

"You—!" she said.

James smiled brightly and flicked the light.

"Da sends his regards," he told her, dropping it down upon the bones.

Lyra shrieked louder than the wind when the flames erupted—both across the bones and out of her own skin.

It had taken his father nine years to find what he was after—apparently this special cave—but it had only taken him that last year to find the bones of the woman who had bought his soul. James remembered that year was when his father had truly never been home, always out, always hunting down the name and grave of a long-dead woman who was now a monster.

Bequeathing it to his only son the day after his death, Thomas Moriarty would have his revenge after all. James felt as though destiny has been fulfilled.

Lyra burned, but not quietly like the bones. She shrieked louder and louder, enough that James made a face and covered his ears. She didn't burn like he had thought she would; she lit up like a candle, but from the bottom up. She melted into the sky, her ashes being torn from her blackened bones in vicious chunks.

James thought that odd, since her real bones were burning on the ground.

It took forever her to stop screaming, and even longer for the bones to stop burning. When the demon was nothing but dust and flickering flames on the road, James lowered his hands and stared at the little fire at his feet.

So much trouble over so little. James pulled out the yellow piece of paper his father had left him, along with the box of bones. He had thought his father had been funny, leaving him such a silly message and such a useless gift.

"_Dear James_," James said aloud, reading from the little yellow note. "Dear James? I was never your dear anything. But thanks, da."

Revenge was something that a Moriarty would never consider too tall a task to achieve. His father had wanted it more than anything in the wake of never fully achieving his dreams. Maybe that was why he had married and had James to begin with. To be that vengeance.

As it turned out, James now knew, da's dreams were for a cave. All of this, for a single cave.

"_I will not tell you what I found, because I do not think you have earned it. You did not give up what I lost to find it_."

James peered at the fire, watching the once-white bones burn black.

He deserved it now.

"_But I will give you that chance to find it yourself. Do not ask what I asked for. Make them tell you freely_."

And he had. People loved to talk. Especially the ones who thought they had power, but they really didn't.

"_Summon the demon I spoke to by going to the road as I have instructed_."

James dropped the note into the dying flames and watched the edges curl up upon itself.

"_Burn her, James. Burn her from this Earth and beyond_."

And so James did as he was told.

James smiled at the ashes.

He was a good son after all.

The bones were nothing but ash to blow in the wind, disappearing into the night, and would never matter to anyone ever again.

**0000**

**Mendip Hills,****Somerset, England  
Three Months Later**

It didn't take long to the find the right cave. It was all there in his father's notes, detailing what it was; that had never been a question for the professor. The location was the only mystery, but James had one thing his father had not possessed:

Patience.

The locals were all idiots, but they got him started. All the known caves were along the hills. The cave James was looking for wouldn't be there, because it would have been found already. He went further north, taking the paths low into valleys. He knew it would be hidden by overgrowth and what had once been forest. It had remained hidden for so long, it could not possibly look like a cave now.

He followed the whispers of people who spoke of areas that weren't safe and felt wrong. He went to the places they all told him to avoid—the places where the Earth seemed to creak and push back against visitors. It was hiding it from him. The very land itself was in on the mystery.

But it could not hope to stop James. It had not stopped his father. It would not stop James either.

He found it at the break of day three months and two weeks later. He was out of food and losing faith. But he found it, buried beneath the roots of an ancient oak tree.

James dug into the spot where the earth had collapsed inward. The only sign his father had been there were the deliberate signs of the rocks being moved and then covered back over with now-dead branches. James pushed the dirt and stones away, and then stood over the edge to look down.

What he saw made him smile and lean forward. He looked out into the cavernous opening and could feel the earth singing beneath him.

"I found your magic cave, da," James whispered, grinning into the dark abyss. He lifted his torch and let the light drift over the cave's halls.

Catching the newfound light, the walls lit up like a bursting explosion. The crystals that jetted out of the rocky floors became beacons.

James learned that he couldn't just walk in. The birds and mice he threw inside ran around in circles until they died. Later on, men couldn't last either. His father had never made it inside, it would seem, because of this unfortunate trick the cave produced.

But James was patient. James was willing to wait, because in the end, Moriarty won.

He had found his father's stupid Crystal Cave.

.

* * *

**End **_**Crossroads**_.

* * *

.

Next, London had its own sort of apocalypse before… one that included an angel, a demon, an anti-Christ, an ex-hunter, a child detective and, oh, yes, a Doctor.

**A/Ns**:  
-This is happening three months after the Carl Powers incident, or Moriarty's first murder. I've adjusted some of the events in _Sherlock_, so it is a little AU.  
-As a random note: Moriarty does not use "Jim" until after he meets Sebastian Moran, his right hand man, about twelve years after this incident.  
-Yes, _Merlin_ is scheduled to appear in this series.  
-Completely making up _Merlin_ geography for the present day.  
-For non-_Supernatural_ fans reading this: burning the bones of a demon (if they had been a human before going to Hell) will kill the demon permanently. There are not many other things that will, so this is all the average person has to kill one…if they're lucky enough to find the demon's human name. ;)


	5. The Apocalypse That Never Was

_**Small World  
**_"**The Apocalypse That Never Was"  
**By Nan00k

London had its own sort of apocalypse before… one that included an angel, a demon, an anti-Christ, an ex-hunter, a child detective and, oh, yes, a Doctor. Superwholock/Good Omens and Merlin. Part of the Small World AU series.

Don't be surprised by the length of this one; this is basically a re-telling of how _Good Omens _would have gone down with the assistance of the crossover cast, focusing mainly on that crossover cast, since well, we've already read _Good Omens_, haven't we? As a reminder, we are still working with demon!Sherlock here. Refer to "Building Down" if you forget the details.

For those who are unfamiliar with _Good Omens_, I apologize for the abrupt style change in how this story will be presented compared to other installments of this story. The footnotes are _tradition_.

.

* * *

**Warnings**: MASSIVE crossover, mixing of canons, alternative universe setting, dark themes  
**Disclaimers**: _Supernatural_ © Kripke/CW. _Good Omens_ © Pratchet and Gaiman. _Doctor Who_ © BBC. _Sherlock_ © Moffat/Gatiss. _Merlin_ © BBC One, et al.

* * *

.

**London, England  
1990  
Thursday**

The world would End on a Saturday. That much was very certain. It had been written throughout the ages that it would come down to this moment, that day.

It was, as Sherlock would learn, ineffable.

The End rested upon the shoulders of an eleven-year-old boy (1). Sherlock himself was eleven-years-old, but ultimately, it was none of his business. He was not the Anti-Christ. He wasn't, well, human (2) and Mummy didn't know either way; neither did the Anti-Christ's foster-mother about her son. But that was irrelevant.

Sherlock was not fond of irrelevant things, so he focused on the facts: that the world was ending, it was all according to prophecy, and he could do nothing about it.

So, he remained inside that afternoon before the start of the End. He still looked outside his bedroom window between practicing violin and studying. Mummy just thought him to be studious.

His brother, Mycroft, was at his fancy new job in the government. Father was at work. The house felt colder and strangely uncomfortable as the minutes ticked by.

Outside the window, Sherlock could feel the wind picking up. None of the humans had noticed, but those who were not human, well, they were all running as far as they could get…

Or they were watching. Waiting.

"Sherlock," Mummy asked from the door, "what are you looking at?"

He considered answering. He wondered what she expected him to say.

"Nothing, mummy," he said, dutifully picking up his bow and violin again.

It wouldn't be much left outside soon enough, anyway.

Sherlock played a melancholy staff, letting the vibrato echo into his bones.

xxx  
(1) His true alias was Zephyr, the West Wind, so he really was not eleven-years-old.  
(2) Told you.

**0000**

**Surrey, England  
Friday**

The Doctor took one deep breath, held it, and then released it. It was refreshing.

They had had some turbulence going down. Something had snagged the TARDIS while they were slipping through space-time and the Doctor haphazardly decided that maybe they should land. The turbulence felt like ordinary galactic static, but the pulse that had rocked the TARDIS felt… different. He wanted to investigate and his companion had cheerfully agreed, having never visited Surrey before. It wasn't that big of a time jump for her, since she was born in 1986 and this was only 1990 or so.

Besides the odd electro-magnetic interference, the Doctor felt a more personal need to get off the ship and stretch his legs. It had gotten vaguely uncomfortable in the last day or so of traveling, though he knew it was just him that felt that.

He had a new companion, who had rightfully demanded the full title after a few adventures they had had together already (1). The Doctor wasn't exactly tickled by the notion of calling it long term, but there was no reason not to. There really wasn't.

_Really. There isn't_, he told himself firmly. He liked Martha. She had agreed to come back to fill the emptiness of the TARDIS and she did so with bravery, even after going back to her regular life for a few days prior. She was bold and bright and… different. No harm in different.

Well, mostly. The Doctor saw no harm in people being different, because if anything, humans were unique and special each their own. But sometimes, he did have to concede different wasn't too good.

Especially when _Earth_ was the thing that was different when it wasn't supposed to be.

"What's wrong?" Martha Jones asked, peering over his shoulder.

They were on a street corner in Surrey, just near a bar and a pharmacy, and one of those shops that would eventually be selling_ Harry Potter _merchandise in the next ten years (2). The Doctor had cheerfully agreed to head to the bar with Martha to get a bite to eat before exploring a bit, but he had stopped at a newsstand outside the pharmacy when his eyes caught sight of the local newspaper.

The Doctor's eyes squinted. "Do you see this?" he asked, reaching down to pick up one of the newspapers, where a startling sight appeared on the front page.

"_Atlantis_…_found_?" Martha read, shocked. "What on Earth?"

"That's not supposed to happen," the Doctor said, shaking his head slowly. "It's not even the right Atlantis!" That wasn't even the right monument!

Martha glanced at him. "You've been there?"

"To all three of them. Look at this mess!" the Doctor exclaimed. He flipped through the paper hurriedly. "Nuclear plant uranium deposits, vanished! Something's up. Something's wrong."

He knew something felt off, but he had no idea what it was. The people seemed to be agitated over the different events detailed in the papers, but there didn't seem to be outright panic yet. The Doctor considered the situation: just post-Cold War, so they probably didn't want to blame the Russians outright. But this was definitely not the Russians. Definitely not.

"What year is it again?" Martha asked, reaching for her own paper when the Doctor hadn't given her the first one.

The Doctor looked at the written date. "1990." It was a Friday.

"I'm not even in school yet," Martha whispered, mostly to herself. She looked up at him and frowned. "You're right. This shouldn't be happening."

Both flinched at the sound of a car horn going off. The Doctor looked past several pedestrians who had also stopped on the sidewalk. A car had swerved to the side to avoid what looked like a worker coming up from a hole in the middle of the road.

It was not a service worker, however; it was a Tibetan monk.

The Doctor tilted his head, caught between fascination and outrage.

"Is that a…monk?" Martha asked, startled.

The Doctor didn't reply. He watched as a constable rushed over to speak with the poor, confused Tibetan blocking traffic. The Doctor heard him speak in a frantic Khams dialect and realized the poor bloke had no idea where he was or why he had been digging in a tunnel.

…all the way from Tibet.

That was alarming and decidedly not normal for Surrey in 1990.

The Doctor put the newspaper back and walked down the sidewalk, away from the crowd. Martha followed him with a wary expression.

"This whole place feels wrong," the Doctor said quietly, looking around the tiny little village. The air was tingly. "_All_ wrong."

"What should we do?" Martha asked, also in a quiet voice.

The Doctor considered their options. They didn't know what was happening, but maybe someone else did, someone who lived there.

"England, 1990," the Doctor murmured. He nodded and felt confident he knew what to do next. "I may know someone in the area."

"Really?" Martha asked, surprised. "I thought…well, since, you know, the time travel…"

The Doctor grinned over his shoulder at her as they walked past the bar. "There are a few people walking this planet that live about as long as I do, or longer," he said. "Here's to hoping the Wind hasn't moved in the last thirty years. If anyone can explain this, he can—"

A faint ding alerted them to the doors of the bar opening. The Doctor stopped instinctively; it wasn't just to avoid walking into the leaving patrons. The instinctual halt came from a much deeper sense of self-preservation that he hadn't realized he possessed. He stood on the sidewalk and watched as four people exited the bar. Judging by their leather jackets that read HELL'S ANGELS on the back and the helmets either on their head or in their arms, they were bikers.

The Doctor squinted at them and felt a shiver go through him.

The first two were both men, though the skinny dark-haired man was decidedly neater and taller than the other. That second man was younger, wearing clothes that must have been white once to match his chalky complexion, but were now dusty and covered in grime. He looked quite at home in that mess, too.

The third was a beautiful redheaded woman. She was radiant. Seriously, the Doctor could feel her pulse through the air. All of them were pulsing, frankly, but nothing the average human could sense. The more radiation he absorbed, the more the Doctor realized that they weren't human.

The biggest indicator that they weren't human, however, came in the fourth biker, who still had his helmet on. The Doctor didn't have a clue as to what the four creatures were, but he knew, deep in his bones, that the fourth one was, well, really not alright.

Regardless, he needed answers.

"Hey," he said, before he could think better of it. He moved forward quickly and waved his hand at the departing strangers, who were definitely not human. "Hey, excuse me. You there."

"Are you sure that's a good idea?" Martha asked, whispering furiously. She probably had sensed something was off about them too, just by instinct. The four were sort of an odd sight for this section of England.

"Not at all, but let's find out for sure," the Doctor whispered back. He grinned at the row of bikers who had stopped at his outburst. "Hi!"

He watched warily as the four bikers turned and looked at him. The eyes of the redhead and skinny man landed on him with pinpoint accuracy. A flash of something crossed their expressions and the redhead smiled.

"You're not from around here," the Doctor offered.

YOU ARE NOT EITHER, the one in the helmet said.

The Doctor blinked.

"Right," he said, recovering smoothly. "I was just wondering where're you off to in such a hurry?"

"To meet a friend," the young dirty man said, smiling in a way that wasn't quite right. The dark haired man and redheaded woman next to him smiled in much more deviant ways.

The Doctor nodded. "That's nice," he offered and then immediately walked past them, forcing Martha along with him.

Yeah, he wasn't touching this one. Not without more information to back him up.

Before Martha could ask what had happened, they were nearly stepped on by a wave of more bikers coming out of the bar. Martha and the Doctor moved to the side to let them past, but the Doctor was interested in the fact that these bikers were human.

An interesting twist, he decided. He poked the nearest one in the shoulder and the man turned to frown down at him.

"Hey, do you know them?" he asked, hoping he was smiling winningly as he pointed over at the four non-human bikers, who were taking their time getting onto their bikes.

The big bloke frowned. "They're the Hell's Angels," he said.

"So we saw," Martha said, clearing her throat.

"No," the biker said, now grinning as if it were a good thing. "For real. They're the real deal."

"Hell's Angels," the Doctor said. He nodded slowly. "That's…quaint."

"Quaint?" Martha repeated, arching an eyebrow at him. He arched one back at her.

"I'm Really Cool People," the biker in front of them said, ignoring their commentary. He seemed quite proud of that fact. He pointed at his three human companions. "That's Grievous Bodily Harm, Cruelty to Animals, and Things Not Working Properly Even After, uh—"

"I'm Things Not Working Properly Even After You've Thumped Them, idiot," the other biker snapped irritably.

Martha scrunched up her face. "_What_?"

"Well, we had to pick those names when they already got the good ones," Grievous Bodily Harm said, shrugging. He pointed at the red headed woman who had finally gotten onto her bike and revved the engine. "I really wanted War, but she's already gotten that one."

Right. War. The Doctor coughed.

"We're tagging along with them. Real Hell's Angels!" Cruelty to Animals said, sounding excited. "They're pretty cool."

The Doctor glanced up at him, carefully watching out of the corner of his eye as the four real Hell's Angels took off down the road. "Would you happen to know where they're headed?" he asked.

The bikers had scrambled to get on their own bikes, but Really Cool People at least looked over at the Doctor with a happy smile.

"Tadfield, they said," he said, fumbling with his helmet. Grievous Bodily Harm took off into the road behind him. "We're just following. It's going to be great."

"Yeah, well, have fun, I suppose," the Doctor said, waving stiffly as the four humans took off after the first bikers. It made an odd parade. He belatedly wondered if he should have warned the humans, but then again they seemed to be well aware of who their company was.

How…odd. Especially when the Doctor realized the first four—the non-humans, who the Doctor had a vague sense of what they were now—had revealed they knew he wasn't human either. They had seen him ask the human bikers questions. Interesting.

"_Hell's_ Angels?" Martha repeated, sounding stunned.

"Yeah," he said.

They had left the Doctor alone not because they didn't realize he wasn't human, he realized. They had walked off, letting him obtain information from the human bikers, because they didn't think him a threat.

The Doctor grinned.

Beside him, Martha frowned. "You're not thinking…?"

"Oh, I'm thinking," the Doctor began, feeling quite mad and refreshed, "that we really need to go find the Wind."

xxx  
(1) Referring to _Doctor Who_, Series 3, "The Lazarus Experiment."  
(2) The seventh one made him cry.

**0000**

**Bradwell Nuclear Power Station  
Saturday Morning**

If England was having a bad day, Mycroft Holmes was having a particularly awful one.

"You are telling me that five tons of uranium can simply…" Mycroft said, smiling. "_Walk_ away?"

The plant manager did not cow as much as grimace under the barely veiled criticism. "I'm tellin' you, sir," he said, "we don't _know_."

It had happened all over England, though mostly in the west—nuclear power plants were reporting their uranium stores gone. As in, completely and utterly gone. There were no signs of break-ins, which was a ridiculous notion to Mycroft anyway. To transport the uranium, the thieves would have to take time to properly store the material, unless they did not bother to properly store it.

That could mean one of two things: they had an incredibly skilled terrorist organization who were transporting radioactive material without any protective measures, thus endangering the populace at large.

…or it was something else. Some _other_ explanation that did not sit well with anyone in charge.

Mycroft was not one to shy away from _other_ explanations (1). He had to, considering his brother was what he was, occasionally doubt that a situation was not just a simple human problem. It could be something else, something… not so rational as merely a terrorist strike.

He kept those thoughts to himself, regardless. He investigated the third power plant and received no conclusive answers, as expected. He had to phone back to MI6 to give them something conclusive, even though he really didn't have anything at all. Commandeering the manager's office, he made a call.

He briefly—just briefly—considered calling home to speak with Sherlock. But then he thought better of it. He dialed his supervisor's office instead.

"The whole situation is bizarre, sir," he said, tucking his free hand around his back as a grounding gesture. "We are doing everything we can to investigate."

"_I trust that you will_," his supervisor said, sounding not quite bored, but close to it. "_We've heard good things about your ability to get things done, Mr. Holmes_."

"Thank you, sir, but with all due respect," Mycroft began, frowning because his superior could not see him. "I must ask why you brought _me_ onto this case. My previous case—the Sable investigation—was nearly completed."

"_Corporate investigations surely amount less whilst compared to the potentiality of terroristic acts, would you not agree, Mr. Holmes?_"

"Of course, sir," Mycroft said, smiling thinly at the wall. "I was just curious as to why it was I who was selected. I am but a junior agent."

"_We're desperate, Mr. Holmes_," the dull voice interrupted. "That's_ why_."

There wasn't much to argue with at that, though Mycroft wasn't sure if he felt proud at the vague compliment or nervous at the fact his superiors actually did see him as that useful.

"Ah. Well, thank you for the opportunity, sir," he said, gazing round the office with a blank expression.

"_I expect another status report in a timely fashion. Good luck, Mr. Holmes_."

Mycroft barely had the chance to confirm that when his supervisor hung up. Frowning, Mycroft placed the phone back on its cradle.

"…bollocks," he told the empty room.

xxx  
(1) "Other" events include but are not limited to finding out that one's brother is a demonic spirit inhabiting the body of your real deceased brother. Family dinners have been tense ever since. (_"Building Down"_)

**0000**

**Downtown London**

Gregory Lestrade was ecstatic.

He wasn't the kind of bloke who went around jumping and hollering when good luck landed at his door. He was twenty-two; he shouldn't have been doing that sort of thing, anyway. Lestrade—he hated Gregory and its diminutive forms, he honestly did—was naturally inclined to resist showing off his emotions, positive or negative, especially in a public place.

That tendency toward reservation didn't quite stop him from grinning like a loon by himself on the ride back to his apartment. It'd wear off eventually, but he couldn't stop feeling like he had just won the lottery.

The idea to join the Scotland Yard had been a joke, told to him by his bitter father, about Lestrade's refusal to pick up another gun to hunt down whatever it was on their list that week.

"If you don't want to hunt down monsters," Rupert Lestrade had told him when his only son left home a year ago, "why not trade it in for bureaucracy and a badge?"

That's exactly what Lestrade did, much to his father's ire when he eventually heard about it from Lestrade's cousin, who did call in Rupert's place to check in on his son. Having passed the two-day joining process, Lestrade had just had his meeting with his division head and would start work as a constable in the Met by the start of the next week. He had been given a temporary identification badge and it sat in his pocket, practically vibrating. He kept patting it absently.

He wanted to be a detective eventually. Solving crimes, solving real mysteries, not hunting down mythological animals in the wilderness. He'd be helping _real_ people. It was better than being a damn hunter. This was what the world was, not the warped version his father had tried to poison Lestrade's mind with growing up.

People mattered and there was more need for Lestrade to protect them in the city from other people than there was a need for him to be hunting monsters in sewers. It was that simple.

Lestrade wasn't a bitter person by nature, of course, but the childish side of him decided that best part was that this was not the path his father had chosen. It was his own path Lestrade had chosen for himself. His own. It felt _right_.

Humming, Lestrade got back to his apartment just as the storm settled in. It was a rather violent storm, judging by the skies, especially toward Tadfield. He was optimistic about tomorrow though. The weather would be good then, for sure.

The moment he stepped into his flat, he heard the phone ring in the kitchen. He tripped over the rug in the hall and stumbled over to the wall. Lestrade grabbed the phone and bit out an angry _Hello?_ as he massaged his stubbed toe.

"_Great-Uncle Shadwell's got wind of a witch_," George Campbell said without preamble.

"Oh, you have to be joking," Lestrade whispered, closing his eyes as he instantly deflated.

George laughed. "_You know he's crazy. It's probably a bag lady. Again_."

"I know!" Lestrade rubbed his face, all of his previous exuberance dissipating instantly as he sagged against the wall. "Jesus Christ, he's going to wind up _killing_ someone."

"_If only he actually found monsters_," George said, wistful.

"Why are you telling me this?"

"_I was kind of hoping you'd be around to intervene in case the loon does wind up attacking a civilian. He put a call out for 'back-up' about twenty minutes ago. Apparently has someone working for him, too; a private in his army_," George replied, sounding breezy. Lestrade closed his eyes tightly, fighting off a headache.

"Why don't you investigate it?" he asked.

"_Because I'm in Colchester right now and you're the closest on the vine_," George replied, dryly. "_I know Uncle Rupert said you wanted off the list, but I could use some help, cousin._"

"Why the hell is Shadwell still allowed to hunt, anyway?" Lestrade asked, feeling angry with their family for no real reason, or at least no immediate reason. Giving a senile man free range with shotguns and knives did not sit well with him, at all.

"_Because, Greg, we don't get to leave this life_," George said. He didn't sound sympathetic. "_No matter how much we think we can_."

Lestrade grimaced and stared at the opposing wall across from him. That was a direct jab at him. Rupert Lestrade's son. The one who left.

His cousin was partly right; Lestrade smiled bitterly. No one could really leave the family business. Not without strings dangling behind them like bad memories.

"I'll go and find him," he finally said. He may as well, before all of Shadwell's nonsense got picked up by the authorities and perhaps got linked back to Lestrade by association.

"_Thanks, Greg. Hey, maybe if you're lucky, it isn't a false positive! Maybe there'll actually be something this time._"

Lestrade sighed. "A real witch?"

"_Maybe something worse_." George laughed. "_Here's to hoping the past two year's vacation hasn't made you dull._"

"Oh no," Lestrade murmured, "I'm still sharp."

He bid his cousin good-bye and hung up. He stared at the kitchen wall, glaring at it as if it was the source of his problems.

Only a few more hours. Then he could put his father's business behind him and just… find something better. A decent life. A proper one, as a good man.

He took his handgun, anyway. Just in case it wasn't a false positive.

Just in case.

**0000**

**The Holmes Estate**

He had expected to spend the last day on Earth in his room reading. He had thought about going downstairs to sit with Mummy, but she was still irritated with him for spilling talcum powder all over the bathroom floor. It was not _his_ fault that he needed it for his experiments and that his feeble child-like body would not always cooperate with his intended motions. Sherlock prided himself for having reigned in his supernatural reflexes in the last few years, to better assimilate, but it got him into trouble often.

So, he had ended up sitting alone that morning. He watched from his window seat as the wind picked up outside. He had a feeling it would start to thunder and rain, too. It was starting, the End. He wondered how close they were to the epicenter. It felt odd that it was in England, of all places, but Crowley had only spoken infrequently to him about what was happening.

Crowley had told him two years ago (before that insufferable Mycroft chased the Snake away from the garden entrance for "loitering") that everything was under control. He and that angel—Aziraphale, the fat one—were manipulating the Anti-Christ child into being neutral. Crowley had sworn it was working, and because Crowley seemed to be at least partially competent, Sherlock had believed him.

Gripping the pages on his book—one of the books he had to hide from Mummy, since she disapproved of him reading about quantum physics before he was fourteen—Sherlock glared out the window. It had obviously gone bad, whatever plan the demon and angel had cooked up. Sherlock had half the mind to call Crowley up, but if his deception had been discovered, Crowley was a dead man, figuratively speaking. He'd mostly be _wishing_ he could be a dead man, after Hell got started on him. Sherlock wanted no connection between them if it did end that way—

A flash caught Sherlock's eye. He leaned to the side to peer down the side yard. The house was placed on a hill and he could see down into the village. Most humans couldn't see far, but the glint of blue made Sherlock sharpen his gaze to that that exceeded the normal scales an eleven-year-old possessed.

He dropped his book when he saw what looked like a blue telephone booth sitting on the corner of the street.

For the first time in many months, Sherlock was honestly impressed (1).

He scrambled to grab his coat, scarf and flew down the stairs. Mummy was in the living room and cast him a cool glare when he stumbled into view. Sherlock braced himself and tried to appear more presentable. He hoped she hadn't noticed the budding bad weather; on Fridays, she was typically very withdrawn from the world. She probably hadn't heard about the odd things going on outside their mansion at all.

"I'm going out, mummy," he said.

Mummy turned her gaze back to her newspaper. "Out where?" she asked. Apparently, she hadn't looked out the window. Good.

"I have to stop the imminent demise of the world at large," Sherlock told her. "I may not be home for dinner."

Honesty worked best for the absurd situations he occasionally found himself in while living as Sherlock Holmes (_"Mummy, I'm going to meet the Serpent from the Garden of Eden" _or_ "Mummy, I've got to go ward the house from angels getting in."_). His mother assumed he was being a child in those cases. It was quite convenient.

"You most certainly will be home for dinner," she said sharply, not looking up. She didn't have to, with that tone of voice. "Your father will be displeased if you aren't here."

Sherlock took a deep breath. "I'll try not to disappoint you both, then."

He pulled on his coat and went to go to the front hall, but he stopped. Something kept him at the entrance to the living room. Slowly, he turned his head.

"Mummy?"

"Yes?" she answered.

Sherlock pursed his lips. "Goodbye," he said, a pathetic offering in the face of what was to come, if it did come to pass.

His mother did not look up at him. "Goodbye, dear," she said.

It was as much as he could expect. He whirled into the hall and was out the door in a few seconds. The wind was picking up again, but it looked uglier over to the northwest, toward Oxfordshire.

Sherlock jogged down the drive and onto the sidewalk, hoping he would not miss the alien. That phone booth was unmistakable. It could not be coincidence that the creature was here. It was possible—maybe, Sherlock hoped—that the reason the alien was here was to help stop the End.

Stranger things could happen, Sherlock reasoned, like a demon parading around in a child's skin, or a demon and an angel trying to avert the apocalypse together. Sherlock held onto hope.

By the time he reached the phone booth, no one was near it. Cursing, Sherlock looked around at the thin crowds. He didn't see anyone he knew. Had the time traveler changed shape again? He didn't have time to search—

He stopped dead on the sidewalk when someone walked up behind him. He turned and looked up at a familiar face he had not expected to see. Now, he was almost happy to see it.

"Hello, Doctor," he said, smiling.

The man blinked. And then grinned. "'Ello, Zephyr," the Doctor said. "Long time, no see?"

xxx  
(1) A rare and important event, indeed.

**0000**

Meeting old friends was a great thing for the Doctor. He rarely had the opportunity to meet multiple times the various faces he met only once in the cosmos. This was a third time for this particularly creature and Zephyr did not waste any time.

"When you said that you always find a way," the tiny demon said, "I do hope you were sincere."

He sounded just as serious as the Doctor remembered him sounding, only this time, he was definitely a little kid.

"You've shrunk!" the Doctor said, laughing. "Ha, good to see you, my friend."

"Spare the pleasantries," Zephyr said, his cold eyes glaring. "We have more serious things to handle."

The Doctor glanced around. No Tibetans so far. "Indeed."

"You've noticed?" Zephyr asked, impatient.

"Yeah, you could say I have," the Doctor said, sobering up. He nodded. "Ran into a few odd folks back in Surrey. Then saw some Tibetans pop up out of the ground and I was a bit confused about the Atlantis thing."

Zephyr's eyes darkened. Not in a demonic manner, but in an emotional way. "I fear it's already begun, though not the way I had always imagined," he said.

He froze when Martha finally walked up. She peered down at Zephyr curiously.

"Who's the little boy?" she asked. Zephyr's expression darkened even more.

The Doctor grinned. "Oh, Martha, this is Zephyr, an old friend. Very old," he said. He gestured between both of his friends. "Zeph, this is Martha Jones, my traveling companion."

"What happened to the blonde?" Zephyr asked. He briskly dismissed that conversation before the Doctor could feel the sting. "Never mind, I don't care. We need to move quickly, Doctor."

"To do what?" Martha asked, frowning. The Doctor withheld a wince and hoped she missed the "blonde" comment (1).

"The Devil's child, the Anti-Christ! Whatever you want to call him," Zephyr said, impatient. He glared up at the darkening sky. "He's going to end the world."

The Doctor had suspected as much, but he still felt a little dejected by the confirmation. "Oh. That's… not good," he offered.

"I need your help," Zephyr said, turning around. He surprised the Doctor with his slightly desperate manner.

"What can I do?" the Doctor asked. He wasn't going to refuse, of course, but he didn't know what he could do to help, honestly. He wasn't a demon or an angel; this was a bit beyond his expertise level, much to his disappointment.

Zephyr threw his arms up. "I don't know. Something! You can time travel! You can go back and—and I don't know, stop him from being born!"

Stop the Anti-Christ from being born? The Doctor grimaced. "It doesn't work that way, Zephyr," he said quietly.

"Sherlock," Zephyr interrupted, angry. "My name is… _Sherlock_."

The Doctor stopped and looked at the little boy, who frankly, did look like a little boy.

"Sorry," the Time Lord said. He shook his head remorsefully. "I can't go back and change what's already happened, Sherlock. Terrible things happen if I try."

For a moment, Sherlock looked stricken. "…Then…" he said, voice trailing off. He looked off at the horizon with an expression that betrayed a very specific sort of disappointment.

He only knew the demon from their two meetings, but frankly, this was a shock to see him like this. The Doctor looked at Martha, who seemed lost in the conversation, and then back to the skyline. It was getting darker in the west. Something big was brewing.

"But…I can help stop what will happen," the Doctor said, resolute.

"That makes no sense," Sherlock said, bitter. He glared back at the Doctor. "How can you stop it now? No one can. It's already been done."

"Come on," the Doctor said, ignoring that pessimism. He started to walk briskly toward the TARDIS. "What else can we do to stop the Apocalypse?"

"Nothing," Sherlock said, falling into step with the larger human easily. "You are a mortal and I have no power over the forces of Heaven and Hell."

"Then what can we do?" Martha asked, trying to keep up.

They crossed the threshold of the TARDIS, but Sherlock stopped dead in the doorway.

"Crowley," he said in a low voice, his eyes wider.

Martha and the Doctor looked at each other. "Who?"

"Give me a minute," Sherlock said, speaking slowly, his expression torn between murderous and excited. "I have a demon to call."

He turned and walked toward a real payphone just down the block. Martha looked expectantly at the Doctor who shrugged. They didn't have to wait long; Sherlock spent a minute at the phone before coming back over.

"He's not answering," Sherlock said, glowering. "But I left a message. He'll know to follow us."

"Where to?" Martha asked, crossing her arms against her chest.

"The northwest, obviously," Sherlock replied. He was curt, but the Doctor remembered he was always like that. "Whatever little we can do, we obviously must do it there."

The Doctor nodded. "Sounds like a plan."

He swept inside the TARDIS and set about getting them ready to move toward the northwest—where Tadfield was, now that he thought about it. The bikers had mentioned it. Interesting.

"By the way…" The Doctor glanced over at the boy standing stiffly on the floor of the TARDIS, looking decidedly out of place. "That body…?"

"Is mine," Sherlock said, shooting the Time Lord a glance that dared him to challenge the demon. "The child was dead, in a vegetable state. I've been in it for the last seven years."

He hesitated. "It's… the closest I can get to my own," he admitted.

The Doctor smiled broadly. "You did good, Zephyr," he said, meaning it.

"My name is Sherlock now," Sherlock told him firmly. He met his gaze with bright grey eyes that suited him. "Sherlock Holmes."

"I get you, Sherlock," the Doctor said, nodding. He turned back inside and went about getting the TARDIS mobile.

They had an apocalypse to stop.

xxx  
(1) Martha did miss it, but Sherlock never misses anything.

**0000**

**Lower Tadfield**

The first time the Doctor had entered Sherlock's life, it had been back in the 1500s in France and the alien had offered Sherlock a ride through space inside his TARDIS machine. He had turned the offer down simply because Sherlock knew his place was on Earth.

Now, upon exiting the blue box, Sherlock felt immensely glad he had refused back then. He might not have survived any longer than a trip west to Tadfield.

"This thing is an abomination," he said, through gritted teeth. He had never once been disconnected from the Earth; even temporarily moving through time and space like that had been incredibly unsettling. He had felt every single twist and turn.

"Careful, you'll hurt her feelings," Martha said, laughing. She looked back at their driver, who looked irritatingly smug. "I thought you said you two were old friends."

"Well, yes, from _Earth_," the Doctor said, cheerful. "He turned down my first offer to come along in the TARDIS."

"I am very glad I did," Sherlock muttered. He tucked his hands into his coat pockets. It was even worse up here, the feeling of dread building up in the air.

"So, you really aren't a little kid?" Martha asked, walking beside him.

"Not if you consider a six thousand-year-old spirit to be a 'little kid'."

"Ah. Say no more."

He did have to admit, the Doctor knew how to pick traveling assistants. At least she seemed remotely competent. Sherlock was curious to know where the blonde had gone, but judging by the tense drawback of the Doctor's shoulders at the previous question, she was either dead or she left. It was irrelevant.

They had arrived in the middle of a field, close to the road. Sherlock was unfamiliar with the area, but he didn't dare try to use his powers to look further than what was in front of him. The entire area was rank with energy and…something he could not quite place.

"What are we looking for—?" Martha started to ask, but a horrendous crashing noise cut her off. The two mortals jumped and Sherlock merely turned to the road. There was a bend that was barely hidden by a hill.

They walked up to the hill quickly. Sherlock knew the crash was merely a human disaster; it was far too mild to be anything related to the End.

"That doesn't sound like an apocalypse," the Doctor said, his face scrunched up. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

Martha peered over the hill and made a soft sound. "A car accident!"

"Who cares?" Sherlock asked, impatient. He glared over at the two time travelers and marched up to them on the hill. "This isn't…_wait_."

There were two things to look at once they got to the top of the hill: the crash site and what looked like four human children standing around it. The flipped car was of no importance to Sherlock; a human woman was tending to a dark haired man who looked unconscious. The children had helped to pull the human from the flipped car, but the woman shoed them away. They willingly left, talking excited, but in their midst, Sherlock saw a terrifying sight: a blond haired boy who shone like a beacon to the demon.

"That's him," he whispered, his human heart beating rapidly.

The Doctor stared at him. "Who him?"

Sherlock knew his fear was visible on his face. "It's… the Anti-Christ," he said, shivering. "It's _him_. The Adversary, the Master, the Great Beast that is called Dragon. I… would know him anywhere."

His entire body throbbed when the Adversary turned his gaze up to those on the hill. It took everything Sherlock had in him not to flee in terror and awe.

"We'll take your word for it," Martha muttered, unaffected. She bravely walked down the hill toward the humans on the road. "Hey, is everything alright?"

With the children now walking off in an excited buzz, there was only a woman left by the car's side, with the unconscious human at her feet. "Yes…" The woman blinked at them, her eyes narrowing slightly when she noticed the Doctor and Sherlock specifically. "The children helped the poor man out."

"I'm Martha Jones, I'm a physician," Martha said, shaking the woman's hand firmly. She knelt down next to the prone man the children had dragged out of the car and looked him over. "He seems all right…just a knock to the head. But he should get to a hospital to be certain."

"I'm Anathema Device," the woman—she was no ordinary human, from what Sherlock could tell—said. She inclined her head back toward the cottage just down the road. "I'll get him inside my place and let him rest up."

"Shouldn't you wait for the paramedics out here?" Martha asked, frowning.

Anathema shrugged. "Oh, no, he's not terribly injured."

The Doctor and Martha exchanged a look. "You sure?" Martha asked, wisely not fighting her on this. Even she could tell that something other than human-business was underway.

"Very," Anathema said simply. She knelt down and grabbed the man under his arms. "Excuse me."

Martha stopped her. "Hey, hold on a sec, we'll help you," she said. She looked back to the Doctor and Sherlock, motioning for them to follow her away from the wreck to speak alone. "Come here…"

"Got a plan, Martha?" the Doctor asked, curious as they got away from the frowning human. Sherlock was certain what Anathema was now.

"That woman is a witch," Sherlock announced, interrupting Martha.

She blinked. "You sure?"

"Yes," Sherlock said. "Either that, or a powerful psychic. She must know what is going on in the area."

Martha bit her lip. "How about this…" She glanced over her shoulder at the humans. "I stay with Miss Device and see what she knows about these weird events. Doctor, you go look for that Crowley fellow."

Sherlock kept looking down the road, toward the swell of energy still looming there, where the Anti-Christ stood. He hastily took out a notepad and scribbled a few lines.

He looked up at the Doctor. "Crowley is… _allied_ with an angel, Aziraphale, who has a bookshop in Soho. The address," he said, handing the paper over to the Doctor, who looked curious still. "Get one of them in on this."

"What will you do?" the Doctor asked, seemingly taking well to the orders.

Sherlock steadied himself. "I will confront the Anti-Christ," he said. He sounded far more confident about that than he felt.

"What?" Martha asked, startled. "Are you sure?"

"This will require a manner of tact you both do not possess." He looked up at them when they waited an explanation. He arched a dark eyebrow. "You're both adults."

The Doctor blinked. "Oh. Right."

"We're really leaving this in the hands of a ten-year-old?" Martha asked, as Sherlock headed toward the circle of children.

"They're eleven, I think, actually…" he heard the Doctor tell her. Sherlock shook his head and left them to handle the witch.

He walked down the road and quickly caught up to the four children who had left the crash site. Their conversation seemed to indicate they felt like they had helped save the male human's life, but Sherlock only cared about the blonde haired child in their midst. He looked no older than Sherlock, and yet, Sherlock could feel the immense power building beneath the boy's skin. It wasn't the End yet, but it was coming.

Sherlock stepped up behind the four as they chattered on, oblivious.

"…where're they going to send a medal anyway?" the redhead girl said. "To our houses?"

The Anti-Christ shrugged. "Nah, they're just show up on the door. It'll be a nice ceremony on the lawn."

The dirty boy opened his mouth to disagree, but he stopped when he saw Sherlock standing there like a specter on the path. He squinted his eyes.

"Oi, who's that?" the boy asked. His companions, including the Anti-Christ, turned to look at Sherlock.

The moment their eyes met, Sherlock felt a shiver go through him. The Anti-Christ took him in—_all of him_—and smiled.

"Hi," the Adversary said. "I'm Adam."

Sherlock shivered. "I'm Sherlock," he said.

"What are you?" Adam asked, seeing more than just a Holmes boy on the path.

"I'm the wind," Sherlock said, knowing he could not lie. "You're the Anti-Christ."

Adam's face dropped a little. "No, I'm just Adam," he said. He hesitated a little. "I thought I was, anyway."

"Things are changing," Sherlock agreed, feeling just a little sad about that. This was a boy, and yet, he was also the greatest calamity to ever exist. If anything were to ever be a pity, it would be that.

"Did you just move here?" the wavy, fair-headed boy asked. He looked rather severe for an eleven-year old.

"No, I live in London," Sherlock answered. He tucked his hands into his pockets. "Where are you going?"

"Back to our base," Adam said. He smiled again. "Wanna come?"

The redhead girl scowled. "Why're you inviting him? We don't know 'im."

"He's interesting," Adam told her. He glanced back at the demon. "Come on, Sherlock."

Going with him was dangerous. He was the Anti-Christ. He didn't seem diabolical and he certainly didn't seem like he knew what he was to do later that day. Sherlock did not want to risk pushing the boy over the edge. He also did not want to leave him and then not be able to help him resist the urge to cause the End.

Troubling.

Sherlock looked behind him and saw Martha was alone helping Anathema carry Newt toward her cottage. The TARDIS was gone. The Doctor had gone off to find them assistance. Perhaps it was good that Sherlock was remaining there to watch for change in Adam before—

In front of him, the air grew just a little colder.

"Coming?" Adam asked, his beautiful face just slightly sharper.

Sherlock braced himself.

"Yes," he said, walking after the Lord of Darkness and his friends on weak legs.

**0000**

**Soho, West End of London**

Shadwell wasn't actually his great-uncle. He was an old family friend, but not to any family Lestrade could consider his immediate family. Still, Shadwell was well-known among the Lestrades and the Campbells in the U.K. and was almost adopted in the distant family ties as a fellow hunter. He wasn't really old enough to be a great-uncle, but the moniker fit well (and for whatever reason, Shadwell believed it to be true.)

That said, he was a very particular breed of hunter. While most hunters took whatever job came their way—ghoul, vampire, demon, ghost—Shadwell was a member of a very old sect of hunters called the Witchfinder Army. Lestrade had vague memories of the old man's rants back when they actually did contact him for assistance on cases. He sort of drifted off into his own bubble of non-existent work and everyone in the community generally agreed that it was "for the best." Much safer for the other hunters and innocent civilians Shadwell was infamous for targeting.

Lestrade did not feel guilty over not stopping by more often, because this was the sort of life he had been trying to leave behind. Also, Shadwell was insane and did not make for good company for longer than a few minutes at a time.

He arrived at the shop where Shadwell rented a small backroom as the base of his Witchfinder's Army. The kindly psychic in the front flat smiled at him when he stepped into the back hallway, but before they could greet each other, Shadwell came bustling out of his tiny back room.

"Uncle Shadwell, where are you going?" Lestrade asked, frowning at the little man as he shoved his moth-eaten hat on.

"Ach! If it isn't my useless nephew!" the shorter man snapped. He tugged a ratty looking scarf about his neck. "Get yer gun, laddie, we've got a case!"

"That's what I'm here for…" Lestrade muttered. He frowned at the other man. "What sort of case?"

"A witch walks this Earth, lad, and I ha' sent ou' one of my ane t' confront the De'el-spawn alone!" Shadwell took on an aggrieved expression. "T'my ane shame, lad, my shame."

Lestrade carefully held back a sigh. "So we're going to find your foot soldier?" He followed Shadwell out of the building. It was starting to rain. "It's getting ugly out here, uncle. Maybe this can wait."

"No, it cannae!" Shadwell barked.

"_Where_ exactly are we headed?" Lestrade asked, grimacing. He hoped this wouldn't last all night.

"To the first o' our sponsors," Shadwell muttered. He glared up at the sky as if angry at it for raining on him. "They sent us t' confront a rising wave o' witches in the northwest, in Tadfield. Need to pick up my payment t' get there."

"Right…" Lestrade blinked. "Wait, _whose_ been paying you?" Shadwell got _paid_ for hunting? That didn't seem fair at all.

"Southern pansies, both o' them!" Shadwell said, shaking his head with disdain. "But the Army needs t' be provided for. Th' call to rid the Earth o' the mark o' th' Beast cannae be ignored."

"This is going to be hilarious," Lestrade muttered under his breath. "I'm just curious to meet who the hell would fund a _Witch_finder."

Definitely not another hunter; Shadwell was too well known to be treated as an actual asset. Though… maybe it was someone in the community, considering that Shadwell didn't have any other sources of income. A charity action made sense, but Lestrade could not fathom why someone would fake being a sponsor to keep Shadwell off the streets by giving him fake cases, too. For Shadwell's track record, it was too risky (1).

Lestrade reluctantly chauffeured the mumbling Shadwell over to his supposed sponsor's address. Lestrade was displeased when they entered Soho and then wound up in front of what was clearly a second-hand bookshop.

"This is a bookshop," Lestrade said, sighing heavily as he turned his car off. "Are you sure it's the right address?"

"Aye!" Shadwell said, resolute as they approached the store. He opened the door, which was unlocked despite the fact that the lights were dimmed inside. "Now, where is tha' Southern pansy—?"

The inside of the shop was musty and unwelcoming. Lestrade frowned and realized that he shouldn't have been involved in this if Shadwell had not in fact been invited; this was basically breaking and entering. Lestrade did not need that getting linked back to his name now.

No one was visible in the front of the shop. Lestrade had expected wait at the front until the shopkeeper appeared. Shadwell was impatient, but both hunters froze when voices drifted up from the back of the shop.

Lestrade was not a paranoid man, not like his father and Shadwell were, but it would be incorrect to say he had not been instilled with their sense of survival instincts when odd things, like whispered voices, came his way.

"…doesn't have to be any of that business with one third of the seas turning to blood or anything!"

"_Why not?_"

"Well, you can simply make sure that—"

"_We will _win_, Aziraphale._"

"Yes, but—"

"_The forces of darkness must be beaten. You seem to be under a misapprehension. The point is not to avoid the war, it is to win it._"

Lestrade froze at the counter, his heart racing. That was not a human voice. He saw the glow leaking out from behind the back bookshelves. The conversation going on was not about books. It was…

Beside him, Shadwell looked torn between being sick and ecstatic.

"Ye hear that?" he whispered quickly.

"That's no witch," Lestrade whispered, eyes going wider and wider on his face. "That's…"

_Biblical_, he thought, only a little hysterically.

"…_you will of course be joining us, won't you?_" the inhuman voice asked. There was an odd hum to it, like it was a distant mechanical sound.

"Well, er, of course it has been simply ages since I've held a flaming sword—" came the second jittery voice. It sounded human.

"_Yes, we recall. You will have a lot of opportunity to relearn._"

Lestrade did not have a gun yet from the Met, but he didn't need it. He brought out his own, a gift from his father when he had turned six (2). He glanced to Shadwell, who seemed frozen, and didn't move forward.

"—I'll just clear up a few business matters, shall I?" the human was saying, sounding just as tense as Lestrade felt. What was this?

"_There hardly seems to be any necessity._" The light rippled slightly between the books.

There were a few more murmured exchanges, but then the voices stopped. Lestrade heard the human figure in the back of the shop breathing heavily and then there was a minor scramble. He heard the sound of a phone being lifted off a receiver and a number being dialed.

"Crowley!" the human hissed, as if the inhuman presence was still there listening in; there was still a light, but it was right there, so hiding from it seemed like a useless task. "Listen! I haven't got much time! The—shut up! Listen! It was in Tadfield! It's all in that book! You've got to stop—I want to talk to you _now_—stop making noises! It was in Tadfield this whole—bugger!"

Lestrade had no clue what was going on. He moved closer and Shadwell followed suit, breathing heavily behind him. Lestrade could almost make out the back of the human hastily dialing another number.

"Crowley!" the figure tried again. "It's me! …are you alone? Listen—!"

"Awa' we ye, ye spawn o' hell!" Shadwell suddenly burst out, stomping forward. Lestrade jumped and cursed.

Moving up after him, Lestrade was finally able to see the rest of the bookshop. He saw a light hovering inside a _clearly_ magical circle in the center of the room. The figure by the phone was a pudgy blond haired man that did not look magical, but even Lestrade knew looks were deceiving. He raised his gun, but felt increasingly at odds about the situation. Shadwell did not share his hesitance.

"I'll have ye, ye evil bastard!" Shadwell roared, advancing closer. "I ken what ye be about, comin' up here and seducing wimmen to do yer evil will!"

"I think perhaps you have the wrong shop," the odd figure—Aziraphale, wasn't it?—said, looking wary. He hastily hung up the phone. "Uh…"

"I could see what yer were aboot!" Shadwell said, practically foaming at the mouth. He pointed at Aziraphale, as threatening as a rabid pocket dog.

Lestrade frowned. "What was all that?" he demanded instead, nodding his head at the magic circle.

"Things are not what they seem," Aziraphale said in a careful voice.

Shadwell made a derisive sound. "I bet they ain't! You've got a bell, a book—practically a candle!"

Aziraphale's gaze snapped down to where Shadwell was walking. "I think it might not be a very good idea to walk into the—," he started to say.

"By the powers invested in me by virtue o' my office o' Witchfinder," Shadwell said; Lestrade grimaced. "I charge ye to quit from this place—!"

"Really, the circle, it would be very unwise for a human to set foot in it without—," the creature in front of them said, now more alarmed. Lestrade hesitated at that. What about the circle?

"—and return henceforth to the place from which ye came—!"

"Stay out of the circle, you stupid man!" the creature said, holding his hand out to stop Shadwell, who was now just in front of the circle.

"—never come again to vex—!"

Lestrade abruptly realized he probably should have stopped his uncle then.

"Yes, yes, but _please_ keep out of the—!" Aziraphale shouted, moving forward at last. Lestrade tensed up and was ready to pull the trigger.

"—returning NAE MORE!" Shadwell said, pointing his blackened finger toward the creature fearlessly.

Lestrade held his breath. "Uncle Shadwell!" he said, lowering his gun when the creature in front of them abruptly stopped dead in his tracks. "What the hell are you—?"

Aziraphale was looking down at the floor, where one of his feet was inside the circle.

"Oh, _fuck_," the creature said, before disappearing along with the blue light and a melodious twang.

Lestrade froze; there was no explosion or loud noise. The creature and the light had vanished in one swift move. He waited for a long second in the dim candlelight for something else to happen. Was that a demon? It didn't feel like one. The whole thing—he had never seen or heard anything like it before.

"Shadwell," he said hoarsely. He grabbed his stunned uncle by the shoulder. "Come on, let's go."

They'd call in the rest of the clan to handle this. Lestrade didn't feel right being involved in it now. It felt wrong—

Shadwell's moth-eaten coat sleeve caught on the counter. Before Lestrade could stop it, his uncle accidentally sent the candles flying across the surface and then onto the floor.

"Shadwell! You—!" Lestrade hauled his uncle out of the way when the hot wax flew onto the books on the floor and the whole thing went up in a whoosh of hot air. "Oh, _bugger it_. Get out, get out!"

They ran for the door as the flames spread across the inside of the shop like a wildfire.

xxx  
(1) That one time he attacked the Mayor of Lambeth was still too fresh in Lestrade's mind for comfort.  
(2) He had asked for a Batmobile Corgi Crime Fighter Car.

**0000**

**Salt Quarry, Lower Tadfield**

Sherlock had followed the Them, as the four children called themselves, down to an old salt quarry, where they had built up a little structure with a roof. Adam's dog (a hellhound, actually) bounded around them, but settled beside his master eagerly. Sherlock had expected to get down to business by talking to Adam succinctly about stopping the End, since Adam did seem like an intelligent boy. The children kept talking, however, and Sherlock was left by the wayside.

The children were arguing about whales. _Whales_. It appeared that the Anti-Christ had been learning about environmental disasters and was not pleased by what he had learned.

"…'s gonna be a fine old world to grow up in. No whales, no air, and everyone paddlin' around because of the seas risin'," the Adversary was saying. He was growing darker. Sherlock shivered and kept looking at the boy as if waiting for him to explode.

His female friend, Pepper, made a face. "Then the Atlantisans'd be the only ones well off," she said.

"They'd be able to go everywhere," Brian, the dirty one, agreed. "The Atlantisans, I mean—"

All at once, Adam shifted. "I'm fed up with the ole Atlantisans and Tibetans," he said, shutting down the conversation in one swift move. His friends looked at him curiously because they didn't sense the danger.

Sherlock sank against the quarry wall and it took everything he had not to run. He could only stare at the Anti-Christ, who only became darker and _darker_.

"Jus' when you think the world's all full of amazin' things, they tell you it's really all dead whales and chopped down forests and nucular waste hangin' about for millions of years." Adam's eyes hardened. "'Snot worth growin' up for, if you ask my opinion."

He threw a small stick off into the distance and Sherlock sank further. He was lost in the darkness. Adam was becoming the sole beacon, which grew brighter despite the choking sense of despair that came from him as well.

"Serve everyone right if all the nucular bombs went off and it all started again, only prop'ly organized," Adam said. He patted his dog's head absently. "Sometimes I think that's what I'd like to happen, so we could sort everythin' out."

Nuclear bombs. That sounded…vaguely important. Sherlock couldn't remember why that would be important to him; Adam's interest seemed to be coming from his negative emotions toward the adults in the world. Then again, maybe Adam had a point. Adam was pretty good at making points—

Blinking, Sherlock suddenly realized he was sitting down on the cold ground. The other children seemed uncomfortable as Adam spoke about creating a new world, just for them. Sherlock blinked again, fighting an odd haze.

Why was he just _sitting_ there? He had come down there to talk Adam out of blowing the world up. Why was he listening to this disturbing yet childish banter?

Sherlock made a low sound when he realized. It was… Adam. Adam! He was the bloody Anti-Christ. Every demonic entity bowed to him (the hellhound at Adam's feet was also whining in low subservience) and Sherlock was no different. It was nature. It was more natural than nature.

He couldn't stay there. Sherlock felt a pang of terror course through him as the children tried to distract their leader, but Adam only grew darker. If Sherlock stayed any longer, he wouldn't be able to focus.

There were other places to be. The talk of nuclear weapons—that had to be it. He had to warn the Doctor that Adam was focusing the apocalypse on nuclear warfare; his influence on the manner of destruction could be vital. Sherlock had to send someone else back here to deal with Adam later. He couldn't stay; he kept getting lost in what Adam _was_.

On shaky legs, Sherlock stumbled past a confused Brian and tried to focus on the path leading out of the quarry. If he could only get out of sight, out of earshot—

"Where are you going?" Adam asked coldly, before he could leave the safe prison under the tin roof.

Zephyr whined.

"No where," he said, and it was true.

**0000**

**Soho, West End of London**

"Oh, God, I'm going to get fired," Lestrade whispered into his hands. "Haven't even got the bloody job really and I'm already sacked. Bloody hell…"

He had run to another store to call the fire department. He did everything he could to remove his name and presence from the equation, but it had felt wrong to merely rush off. He was trying to be a police officer, someone who didn't just burn a house of witches down and leave without taking responsibility for it, and leaving the scene was undoubtedly irresponsible. He still refrained from exposing the fact he had been inside, merely telling the arriving officers he had been outside and had seen the flames. It seemed to work.

Whatever he had seen inside, it was over. Now he just had to tolerate being a witness to an ordinary accident. It still felt wrong to stand on the sidelines of the crowd that was forming to watch the firefighters battle and lost against the flames.

And then Shadwell—that lunatic had rushed off into the rain while Lestrade had been distracted by the police. He had been in terrified awe of his "powers" to confront the "darkness," though Lestrade knew that it had been sheer dumb luck, whatever it was that happened.

What had happened, though? Lestrade kept playing the incident over and over in his mind, but he was still at a loss. He had never seen a creature like that or magic that acted that way. It felt _all wrong_. And what he had heard being said… felt weird, too.

Lestrade knew he should have called his father or George to report the incident. Shadwell certainly wouldn't think to. He'd call later, once he was out of the crowd. He still had to fill out an incident report, though Lestrade would certainly avoid mentioning incriminating factors. He was already walking on eggshells.

"What happened?" someone next to him—a brown haired bloke in a blue suit—asked, sounding curious. The crowd had remained mostly the same size as the firemen did their best to put out the flames.

Lestrade ran a hand over his face. "I…" He exhaled sharply as they looked at the flames poking out of the storefront windows. The second floor was blazing now. "Store caught fire. Not going to be able to save much of it."

"Oh, no," the man next to him said. He sucked in a breath. "Do you know the owner? I was supposed to meet him."

"I, no, I don't know him," Lestrade said, distracted. He paused and then looked over carefully at the stranger. "…did you say you were going to meet him?"

"Yes," the stranger said, shrugging. He tucked his hands into his pockets. "Well, I suppose I should look to see if he's somewhere nearby."

Lestrade frowned. "Right…" he said, as the stranger ducked away. Whatever it was, something felt wrong about him. He had seen enough strangeness that day to prove his senses as a hunter weren't too rusty. He was half-considering going after the stranger—

A sudden cry rose up in the crowd assembled in front of the burning shop. Lestrade turned just in time to see a dark figure dashing into front of the bookstore.

"What's going on?" he asked, startled.

One of the police officers looked horrified. "That man just ran into the fire! Wouldn't stop, even though we tried to tell him not to!" he exclaimed.

"What?" Lestrade asked, jaw dropping. "Jesus, it's an inferno in there—!"

The fire team was still struggling with getting a hose out onto the windows in order to chase after the crazy man who had ran inside, but Lestrade knew it was lost cause. The second floor of the shop was already spitting flames out the windows. They'd be lucky if they didn't lose the surrounding buildings. The lunatic inside was probably already burnt to a crisp—

Lestrade felt like he had received a blow to the gut when he saw the dark figure barrel out of the front of the store. It was the same man, without his sunglasses, and he seemed to carrying something. The lunatic ignored the police and marched off with a book.

"What…?" Lestrade whispered, his hair rising all over his arms and neck.

That was too much to be coincidence.

In an instant, he was off running after the man. They barreled down the street and Lestrade knew the man was headed for what looked like a 1920s Bentley half-parked on the sidewalk just down the way.

"Hold it!" Lestrade shouted, pulling out his gun. Witnesses be damned, his father had taught him that much.

The stranger turned and eyed the gun with as much concern as one would a mosquito. He did stumble to a halt and glared at Lestrade.

"Give me a reason to," the stranger snapped, holding the book in his arms protectively. In the rain and bad lighting, Lestrade couldn't tell if his eyes were gold or not.

"Name's Lestrade. I'm a hunter," Lestrade said, breathing heavily. He raised his weapon, not taking any chances on poor lighting. "And you're not human."

It was always a gamble to say that, considering that sometimes, targets turned out to be merely really weird humans. However, when that line did work, it was always elicited the proper reaction. The stranger with the book immediately tensed up with a combination of frustration and alarm.

"Oh, _bless this_," he snarled. He pointed at Lestrade. "_Who_ are you—?"

"What do you need that book for?" Lestrade demanded.

Those golden eyes flashed; definitely not just the light. "None of your business," the creature said. He took a step forward, still unimpressed by the gun. "Back off."

Lestrade kept it steady in his grip anyway. "What's your name?"

"Anthony J. Crowley," the creature said, mockingly. He drew backwards, as if to leave. "Now then, if you don't _mind_—"

"Crowley! Ha!"

Both men paused at the mouth of the alley. Lestrade turned warily and saw the man in the blue suit from earlier grinning at them from a few meters away. The brown haired man waved his hand at Crowley, who stared at him blankly.

"Do I know you?" the creature asked, almost as if threatening the man to admit to wasting his time.

"I'm the Doctor!" the man in the suit said cheerfully. He tucked his hands into his pockets and bounced on his heels. "Your friend sent me to find you, or Aziraphale, but it looks like he's not here."

Crowley flinched. "What friend? !"

"You know, Zephyr," the Doctor—clearly an alias—said. "I mean, Sherlock. Keep forgetting."

That caused Crowley to stop and give the Doctor his full attention.

"…what are you?" Crowley asked, which made Lestrade flinch.

"I'm a Time Lord," the Doctor said, smiling.

Lestrade blinked past rain. "What's a Time Lord?" he asked, earning the creature's attention. "You're not human?"

The Doctor shrugged. "I'm an alien, to be technical. A Time Lord."

_Alien?_ Lestrade thought shrilly.

"Where is he? Zephyr?" Crowley interrupted, moving closer to the Doctor. Both were ignoring the hunter with the gun again.

"Combatting the Anti-Christ!" the Doctor said, grinning. He scratched the side of his nose. "Or something. I think he wants to talk him down."

"You found the Anti-Christ? !" Crowley exclaimed.

"The WHAT? !" Lestrade sputtered, now completely certain he was going mad.

The Doctor motioned with his hand. "Come on!" he said, walking back down the alley toward what looked like an old phone booth. "We should figure this out on the way!"

"Bloody hell…!" Lestrade looked over at Crowley in alarm. This whole thing was raving mad. "What's he talking about? The Anti-Christ? Is that what that bookkeeper was talking about?"

What the hell had he just walked into? This was unfair. This was totally, and completely, unfair for this to wind up on his lap. He had just spent the first part of his day planning his escape from the world of the supernatural!

"The world is ending," Crowley grunted. "We were trying to stop it." He paused and looked over at Lestrade as if only then noticing what the human had said.

In a split second, Crowley was on Lestrade, slamming him into the brick wall of the alley. Lestrade flailed, though there was no way he could remove the arm pinning his neck as if the arm were an iron bar.

"_What_ happened to Aziraphale?" Crowley hissed, his eyes gold and serpentine.

Lestrade swallowed hard, knowing it would be a mistake to lie. "He…vanished."

"_What_ do you mean, vanished?"

This was all ridiculously unfair. "My uncle—he's daft, it wasn't his fault—he made that guy, the Aziraphale guy, step into some magic circle! It was blue and glowing!" he sputtered.

That caused the demon to hesitate. "…circle…?" Crowley suddenly snarled and he backed away from Lestrade, who gratefully massaged his throat. "Oh, bollocks, he's either lost his body or dead. Just great."

"What are you two?" Lestrade asked, stunned.

"He was an angel," Crowley said, impatiently. He glared at the human with open distrust. "And I'm exactly what you think I am."

Down the alley, the Doctor waved his arm at them. "Are you coming?" he called from the front of his phone booth. Both Crowley and Lestrade looked at him with varying degrees of disdain and confusion.

"Don't get in my way, hunter," Crowley said lowly, glaring over at Lestrade, before stalking over to the alien, his odd book in hand.

Lestrade had about fifteen seconds to decide; he wound him chasing after the demon, because he was a fucking idiot.

**0000**

**Salt Quarry, Lower Tadfield**

He knew he was down in that salt quarry for a reason, but he honestly could not recall.

Perhaps it was to be near Adam. Yes, that sounded right.

Sherlock blinked. Above them, thunder rumbled and the dark clouds coiled in the air in terrible masses. It brought back a faint sense of clarity.

The Doctor. The witch. The…End. Sherlock took a deep breath. He had to focus.

"You need…" he started, but he stopped when Adam looked directly at him.

"I need what?" the Master asked.

Sherlock felt a strain on his mind. He had something to ask him, but he didn't remember. It all felt unimportant. The thunder snarled above them and the humans flinched.

"Sherlock," Adam said.

"Yes, lord?" he answered immediately.

Wensleydale made a face. "He isn't lord, he's _Adam_," he said, sounding like he didn't quite believe himself.

Adam looked deliberately at Sherlock. "What do you think? Won't a world just for us be _great_?" he asked, his eyes shining.

Sherlock didn't know; he thought whatever Adam thought best.

**0000**

**Jasmine Cottage, Tadfield**

After a nice long conversation over tea, Martha decided that Device was actually a witch. She also decided soon after that she was very much in over her head, as was the Doctor, considering just how biblical their situation was. Literally.

Anathema had been expecting to care for Newt Pulsifer, as he introduced himself about an hour later when he woke up, because she received warning of his car crash from the book of prophecies her ancestor, a witch named Agnes Nutter, had written in the 1655. Those prophecies predicted the End to happen that very day. Anathema showed off the card copies she had of the book, since the book had unfortunately been lost the day prior, and Martha had read through several of them. She didn't see any prophecies about herself or the Doctor, but a lot of the odd events happening outside, including Newt's car accident, seemed a little too accurate for Martha's comfort.

When Newt came to, Anathema explained about the prophecies, which Newt seemed to take in stride, though he was a bit nervous when he realized she knew he was a Witchfinder, and what did you know, she was a witch. There was talk about their mutual ancestors (turned out that Newt's ancestor had been the one to put Agnes Nutter to the stake). Martha didn't let them dither for long, consider they did have an apocalypse waiting for them.

Then a storm hit. A violent one. They all took cover and Martha had expected the entire building to collapse on top of them. It was like a hurricane. Eventually, it did subside, leaving them all covered in plaster and pieces of glass. Martha then discovered an expected way to screw up the time continuum that the Doctor had not warned her about (1).

"Something's wrong," Anathema said, brushing dust from her hair. She was an incredibly calm woman, though that might have been because she literally knew what was coming around the corner.

Martha looked over at her, pushing the bookcase she had been using as a shield away. "What? The storm?"

"No," the witch said. "You're here. This is not what I was expecting."

"Maybe it's just because your ancestor didn't expect a time traveler?" Martha suggested. She hesitated at Anathema's odd stare. "What's wrong with me being here?"

"Well, considering that you're here, Newt and I can't have intercourse as Agnes predicted," Anathema said.

Newt, in the process of getting to his feet, fell onto his face. "WHAT?" he squawked.

Martha stared at the two. "…I'm so sorry," she said, not exactly sure if she was embarrassed or horrified. Should she have apologized?

"No, I suppose it's all right," Anathema said, sounding resigned. She started to tidy up.

"No, seriously," Newt said from the floor, eyes as wide as saucers, "_what_?"

Martha passed the time looking through more of the cards. Some of the prophecies were uncomfortably accurate _("Whene menne of crocus come frome the Earth… and Leviathan runneth free…"_). It was disturbing, really. Once Newt had been brought up to speed, the attention of the conversation changed. Martha had no choice but to explain her own story, which was met with both shock from Newt and suspicion from Anathema.

"So, you're from the future?" Newt said, sounding winded.

"Yes." Martha played with the biscuit on her plate. "Only twenty or so years. The world's still there."

"That's impossible," Anathema said, frowning. "The world is going to _end_. Agnes wasn't wrong about anything else."

Martha had to consider that fact, but there were other factors to include. "Well, maybe that's beside the point," she said. "We're here now and there are others out there trying to fix things to stop the End."

"They won't succeed," Anathema said, taking a sip of tea from a cracked cup.

Newt sent her a smile. "Not with that attitude." He faltered under her immediate glare.

"Look," Martha said, standing up in front of them. The couch had survived the storm's attack on the house moderately well. "Was there _anything_ in the cards about me? Or the Doctor?"

Anathema looked like she was struggling internally with her answer. "…Not that I recall," she finally admitted with a sour expression.

"Then we can still fix things," Martha said, feeling confident. "You must know where this is going to end, right? What's the next step?"

"I'm not sure," Anathema said. She hesitated. "The closest we ever got to a final location was in 3477… but it makes no sense, really."

Beside the mention of Anathema and Newt's disrupted encounter, that prophecy mentioned what Martha assumed were the Hell's Angels she and the Doctor had encountered.

"_The calm cometh when Redde and Whyte and Blacke and Pale approache to Peas is Our Professioune_," Anathema read from one of the cards.

All three of them paused over that reading. Martha strained to figure out what Peas had to do with anything. Were they approaching a grocer? Maybe a farm?

"Wait…" Newt suddenly said. He sat upright, his face brighter. "I think I've got it!"

"What?" Anathema and Martha both asked, startled.

The Witchfinder smiled. "They've got it written down outside that American air base near here," he said excitedly. "It's _Peace is Our Profession_ or something. They put those kinds of signs up on boards outside air bases."

"But that air base only has computers," Anathema said, shaking her head. "It wouldn't be too useful for starting the apocalypse, would it?"

"Computers can do a lot," Newt said, expression suddenly grave. Martha was inclined to agree.

"We don't have anything else to go on," Martha said. She clapped her hands together. "I say we go to the base and check it out ourselves." It was a rational place, really. The Doctor was probably already there, knowing his habit of figuring out the right thing to do in these sorts of cases.

Anathema was still wary about leaping into fixing things, but Newt seemed more convinced. "What are your friends doing about this, by the way?" he asked.

"Well, the Doctor's friend, Sherlock," Mara began.

"—the demon," Anathema confirmed.

"—is talking to the Anti-Christ right now to try to change his mind about ending things," Martha finished. She shrugged. "They're the same age, so it might work."

The witch in their midst paused. "Same age…?" Anathema asked. She suddenly looked enlightened. "Oh…"

"You know him?" Martha guessed, arching an eyebrow. It was a small community, from the look of it.

"Yes," Anathema said, frowning even more. She tucked her long black hair behind her ears. "But continue."

Martha nodded. "The Doctor went to find the other demon, Crowley, and the angel, Aziraphale. They'll be able to help, I'm sure of it." She at least had very high hopes.

"It's worth a shot," Newt said, shrugging. He looked over at his supposed-intended, who was still displeased. "She has a point, Anathema. If things are supposed to happen a certain way, it's obviously what's happening now, otherwise it wouldn't be happening."

Anathema seemed undyingly loyal to the prophecies, though Martha had a feeling that came with the territory of being a 'professional descendant.'

"…as much as that bothers me to hear, I suppose you're correct," Anathema eventually said. She bit her lip. "She… got everything else right."

"But there's nothing about us supposed to be here?" Martha asked again, crossing her arms.

"Not that we could figure out!" Anathema insisted. "Most of the visions focus on the family, not strangers, so maybe that's why."

Martha sighed and looked out the broken window. It looked a little less deadly out there now. "Let's just get to the airfield and see what we can do."

"Won't the Americans stop us?" Newt asked, even as he retrieved his jacket.

"Probably," Martha admitted, though military intervention had never stopped her before. "But let's find out."

She sincerely hoped the Doctor would meet them there.

xxx  
(1) That would be cockblocking via time-travel.

**0000**

**Salt Quarry, Lower Tadfield**

Multiple things triggered the collapse.

Sherlock had been left in a sea of rising surety and plans Adam had devised. They had all made sense. Starting over made sense. Adam made sense.

The other children, the three humans, had listened to Adam's confidence and did not believe in it. They shied away from his growing vehemence and smiles about a better future for them. They didn't trust him like they should have.

It was when he told them that he could take Tadfield for his own that they finally had enough. It was when he told them it didn't matter if they disagreed with him. It was when he told them that he would just make them agree that the children finally gave into fear and tried to run from their leader.

"No, come back!" Adam howled, reaching for them. "I command you!"

The children stopped dead in their tracks. Adam made a gasping noise and shrank back in on himself as he heard the words he was saying.

All at once, Sherlock could breathe and sat upright. Adam's nerve and planning collapsed in an avalanche of horror and shame, nearly sweeping Sherlock along for the ride, but in that moment, he received clarity.

The End. The Doctor. Nuclear holocaust. Must stop it. Must stop the End.

"You… I'm sorry," Adam said, voice quaking. He was still reaching for his friends with a heartbroken expression. "I dint mean…"

Sherlock leapt to his feet and sent Adam a wild look. He waited for whatever else the Anti-Christ could throw at him, but finally, the behemoth that had been growing within him became too much.

Adam was lost in a torrent of understanding. He screamed an unnatural sound and Sherlock winced as it shot across the quarry and up into the storm above them. The children cowered against the wall and watched in silent horror.

Finally, Adam fell back away from that surge of power and stood there with his eyes closed. When he opened them, he was Adam Young again. Just a boy of eleven, who had seen the universe.

Sherlock did not take his chances again.

He moved forward and nearly fell to his knees before the Anti-Christ.

"I am Zephyr, the West Wind," he said, speaking quickly. "I have walked this Earth in one form or another for the last six thousand years. I _beg_ you, Adam Young, you must not let Earth be destroyed."

"Why not?" Adam asked. His eyes were bright; he was still fighting something deep within him.

"Because _look_ at it!" Sherlock exclaimed, motioning with both his arms around them. He looked at the Anti-Christ pleadingly. "You love this place, don't you? You want to be here. You said it yourself."

He kept imagining the Holmes estate, Mummy, Mycroft and Father. He imagined his room with all of his books and the experiments left lying around, never to be finished. He was not done with this world yet, nor with this life. If Adam felt even remotely similar about his own slice of Earth here, then maybe they had a chance.

"But… maybe I could keep it this way," Adam said, still struggling.

"But that wouldn't be right," Sherlock said, shaking his head. The boy had already been told the same by his friends. He moved closer, speaking desperately and he knew it. "Let nature take its course. Let the people decide. Don't let these… _bureaucrats_ decide it for you."

"What's a bureaucrat?" Brian asked, voice tiny.

"An adult," Sherlock explained hastily. He looked back to Adam, who was listening. "You're right to say the adults have messed it all up, but some more than others."

Adam looked like he didn't want to say the wrong thing. "I… know," he said. "It's a lot like…like… Greasy Johnson."

Sherlock blinked. _Who?_

The other children agreed with the analogy, once Adam explained it. A rival gang of children in the area had always plagued the Them and caused them mischief. But a world without Greasy Johnson and his gang was a world without much purpose, the Them rationalized.

There always had to be wins and losses, for both sides, Adam said, realization in his eyes. There would always have to be an enemy for the good guys to fight, since well, the good guys would end up becoming their own enemies in turn.

That was the sort of logic Sherlock decided to place his bets on.

"Adam, please," he said. "You could the world from becoming that sort of place."

"How?" the boy asked, brow narrowed.

Sherlock hesitated. "You've seen the universe, haven't you?"

"Yeah," Adam said. He scratched the back of his leg with his foot. "I guess."

"Well, have you seen anything useful?"

"Maybe," Adam admitted. He frowned and still looked godly. "Sherlock, is the world going to end? Even if I do tell them to stop?"

Sherlock let his shoulders droop. "Only if you want it to," he said, speaking quietly under the thunder above them.

"I don't want it to. Not…really." Adam sighed. "I don't know."

"Only you can figure it out, unfortunately," Sherlock told him. He smiled faintly when Adam looked back at him.

"What if I don't?" the boy asked.

Sherlock hesitated. "Then… I'm not sure. It may happen anyway." The demon shook his head. "But the point is… if you put a stop to it? It will _definitely_ stop."

The cosmos would bend to Adam's will. That was clear. If Adam did nothing, the cosmos would move in the direction their unfortunate overseers—both Heaven and Hell—wanted it to. If Adam put his foot down, however, it could be enough to change their fate.

"They're coming," Adam said abruptly.

"Who is?" Brian asked.

"The Horsemen," he answered. Sherlock winced.

Wensleydale made a tsking sound. "That's unfortunate," he said, vaguely knowing it wasn't a good thing.

"No," Sherlock interrupted. He stepped forward and nodded encouragingly at them. "If there are still players in the game, it can still be played."

"He's right," Adam agreed, suddenly focused. "It's not over yet."

"What's not over?" Brian asked.

Pepper crossed her arms. "Everything, duh." For children, they were observant.

"What can we do?" Wensleydale asked, a little bit more alarmed.

"We do what we can," Sherlock said, looking at Adam, trying to get him to agree.

Adam frowned. "And that's what?"

"We're children, aren't we?" Sherlock asked. "And what can children do best?"

The four children glanced at each other. "…I don't know," Pepper said. Adam looked curious.

"Our parents and elders have given us instructions," Sherlock said. He grinned. "Let us disregard those instructions."

Deliberately, as a matter of proving his point, Sherlock decided he would not be home for dinner.

"You mean, do stuff anyway when they told us not too?" Brian asked, eyes squinted.

"Precisely."

Adam abruptly smiled. "Sounds good to me," he said. He nodded at his friends. "Let's go!"

"Where are we going?" Pepper asked, following after the boy as he walked toward the way out of the quarry. Their loyalty was inspirational in the wake of everything,

"The airfield base," Adam exclaimed. He sounded both excited and agitated. "They're going there. Let's hurry!"

Sherlock rushed after him, his heart pounding.

**0000**

**Somewhere in Inter-Dimensional Space Over London**

Lestrade was going to start shooting people, starting with himself, in the hope of waking up from this nightmare.

It was not enough that the phone booth was approximately twenty-times larger on the inside than it was on the outside. It was not enough that the crazy man piloting the apparent-craft wasn't human at all. It was not enough that the phone booth was actually a time travel machine used by the alien to travel through time and space like in a goddamn science fiction movie.

They also had to be in the middle of stopping the end of the world. They just had to go that far.

"What _are_ you?" Lestrade asked, gazing around in mild horror at the inside of the ship. This was nothing like what his father had told him about. He doubted any of the other hunters knew either.

The man up on the higher part of the bridge waved excitedly. "Time Lord!" He turned back to his computer-esque system and seemed intent on doing something with the controls. "This is the TARDIS by the way. The Time and Relative Dimension in Space—"

"I seriously do not care," Crowley interrupted. He did not seem at all unnerved by the fact they were hurtling through space-time. He was glaring up at the alien. "Start talk, Time Lord."

"Well, I thought we might first find Sherlock and Martha, but yes, I suppose we do have a lot to talk about," the Doctor said. Lestrade wondered what his real name was. The alien looked past the odd machinery down at the lower level. "You all right, Lestrade?"

That made the hunter blink. "Y-yeah…" He rubbed his arm and felt increasingly uncomfortable. "So, what… you're here to…?"

"Stop the end of the world," the Doctor said, with far too much cheer.

Lestrade tried to wrap his mind around that. "Why?" he asked. Why would a non-human care about Earth?

"Because it's not supposed to happen! I'm a time traveler, you see. I've been to Earth in the future, just _twenty_ years into the future, and it's nothing like this!" the Doctor said. He moved over to the side and looked down at the two passengers with a confident grin. "Something's gone wrong, that's what, and I'm here to help fix it."

"How benevolent," Crowley drawled. He might have looked at ease, but Lestrade could see a faint tension in his limbs, as if he were ready to leap into the air at any given time.

The Doctor leaned over the railing. "Sherlock told me that you could help."

"_Help_?" Crowley repeated, laughing sharply. He shook his head. "I can't do anything to stop the End."

"Why not?" the Doctor asked, surprised.

"I'm just a demon," Crowley said, gesturing at himself. "I can't stop the forces of Heaven and Hell from waging war."

That was not what Lestrade expected to hear. Sure, he couldn't expect one demon to amount to much, that was logical, but…

"Why would you?" he asked, before he could think better of it. Crowley sent him a glare, but Lestrade remained firm. "Stop them, I mean? You're a _demon_."

"And you're highly unimaginative," the demon shot back, surprising Lestrade. Crowley shrugged. "There's nothing for me in Hell winning and _certainly_ nothing for me if Heaven won."

The Doctor smiled sadly. "Earth's a nice place, isn't it?" he asked.

"The only nice place," Crowley said, only slightly melancholic.

"Then we need to put together a plan!" the Doctor said, springing back with newfound vigor. Lestrade sighed.

"Aziraphale started to do something. Probably why he's gone," Crowley said, grimacing. He held up the book he had taken from the burning store. "His superiors probably caught wind of it. Dead, maybe."

Lestrade tried his best to keep up with the conversation and names. "Wait… Aziraphale, he was an angel?" he asked.

Crowley glared at him out of the corner of his yellow eye. "Yeah?"

Lestrade almost choked. "Bloody heck, did I hear _God_ talking in there?" he sputtered. There was another voice, an inhuman one, in the shop. Was that—no, that was impossible.

His question caused Crowley to turn completely and look at the hunter in shock. "You heard their conversation?"

It all came tumbling out. Lestrade explained as best he could about Shadwell—whom Crowley admitted to funding as a way to keep tabs on various supernatural things in the area, which made Lestrade uneasy—and the mysterious conversation. He only remembered bits of what he had heard, but Crowley seemed to get a decent amount from it.

The demon nodded. "That was probably just the Voice of God, not actually God. Heh, rumor is that _nobody_ knows where God is," he said, smirking. He coughed and held up the book. "Anyway, this book might be of some use. He was decrypting it."

"What sort of book?" the Doctor asked, moving over now to look at the singed cover. Lestrade did his best not to imagine where the TARDIS was without its driver at the helm. "_The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter_?"

Crowley grunted as he flicked through the pages. "Some 17th century witch predicted the End. Maybe there's something in here that'll help us."

"Prophesizing the apocalypse ain't too nice," Lestrade muttered, feeling just a little bitter again.

The demon sent him a sharp look. "_Nice_ doesn't mean—never mind," he said, bristling. "Let's see what the angel wrote…"

This Aziraphale had translated the book apparently, leaving behind several sheets of notes. Lestrade found himself a third wheel while Crowley sped through the notes with inhuman speed and likely inhuman accuracy. The Doctor's cheer visibly faded as he read the notes Crowley was done with. Lestrade couldn't make heads or tails of a lot of the notations (what was with all the numbers?) but he could read the underlined messages the supposed-angel had left behind.

None of them were good.

"It's really happening then, the End?" the Doctor asked quietly.

"Ngk," Crowley grunted, his expression a mask.

Lestrade only knew a little about the more biblical side of the supernatural world. He had always imagined angels existing, more as a law of balances than anything spiritual. Demons existed and so did Hell, so clearly, the opposite end of the spectrum had to be filled too. He had just never imagined himself being so closely involved in the actual end of the world.

He suddenly felt light-headed. The Doctor had moved over to the side and was peering at the notes, without the cheer he had possessed earlier.

"I went to a planet before… they called it the Impossible Planet," he said suddenly. He smiled mirthlessly. "The Devil was there."

Both Crowley and Lestrade flinched. "What?" Crowley asked. "That's impossible. He's in Hell."

The Doctor shook his head. "No, no, I think it was… what did you people call it? A cage?" he asked. He shrugged. "I think it was just a doorway to wherever the Devil was."

Crowley looked uncomfortable. "…perhaps. I guess _that's_ not impossible," he said.

"Hmm."

Lestrade closed his eyes and fought of a rising headache. This was not what he wanted to think about. He opened them and looked over the papers again. They worked in silence; all of them ignored the rising sense of dread invading the inside of the ship.

"What's this name?" Crowley asked, breaking the silence. He was pointing at the corner of one of the last pages.

It was a listing of phone numbers and names. "Your friend was looking for a bloke with the name Young…" Lestrade murmured. He pointed at one of the names that had been circled. "What's this one? Adam? Adam Young?"

"We need to find Adam Young then," the Doctor said, confident. Crowley nodded in agreement.

"Who?" Lestrade asked.

"The Anti-Christ," the alien replied with a smile.

Bloody heck.

**0000**

**Lower Tadfield**

No adult, no child, and no demon would get in their way up to the airfield. Sherlock sat on the back of a prim black bicycle as the Them pedaled their way toward the military base. He felt light and sick, but he also felt exhilarated. This was going to be either the End or something even more climatic.

He could feel the change in Adam Young, who was now adamantly set on stopping the End. Sherlock smiled to himself as they drove over the bumps in the road. After encountering that odd neighbor who disliked the Them and chastised them for rushing off toward the base, the four children were far more agitated as they thought about what they were going to do. Even the human children in the group seemed to finally understand the gravity of the situation… in their own childlike ways.

"How're we gonna do this?" Brian asked suddenly. Sherlock glanced at the boy, curious.

"What'd you mean?" Adam asked.

"You said we gotta go stop the people up at the airfield," Brian said. "But they've got guns and stuff."

"We're not gonna be fighting the soldiers," Pepper said. She looked back at Adam. "_Are_ we?"

"No," the Anti-Christ admitted. He frowned. "We need…stuff."

"Stuff?"

He looked like he was concentrating hard. "A sword, a crown and…"

"Scales," Sherlock said quietly.

"Right. Scales."

"What? Here?" Pepper said, surprised. They stopped riding and came to a slow stop on the road. She looked around them on the ground. "There's nothing like that here."

Adam looked conflicted. The four children looked around for anything useful. Sherlock sighed quietly.

"You've played games your whole lives," he said, surprising them. He sent Adam a meaningful glance. "Surely, you know what to do with a stick when you need a sword."

Adam blinked and then he grinned. "Cor, you're really smart." And thus, it was so, Sherlock thought, amused. The children scrambled to grab whatever they could find alongside the road.

"I'm a genius," Sherlock said simply. "Let's keep going, okay?"

As the children started to pedal again (their valuable weapons now in hand), Adam glanced over at Sherlock on the back of Wensleydale's bike. "You're really not just the wind, huh?" the Adversary asked. "You're a whole different part of it. Like a bubble."

Sherlock smiled faintly. "I haven't been part of it for many years," he said. He straightened and turned his eyes toward the north, where the airfield was. "You keep leading them, Adam. I need to go ahead."

"And do what?" Adam asked.

He didn't really want to, but Sherlock didn't have a choice. "I'll clear the path for you," he said, looking back at the boy. If anything, he'd stall the apocalypse any way he could.

Adam hesitated; he knew what was waiting there. "Thanks, Sherlock," he said.

Sherlock held his gaze for a long moment. "Don't mention it."

He didn't hesitate to use his powers. He was gone from the bike and the road in an instant. The wind hurtled him forward, and all at once, he was home. It had been years since he had been able to unleash his true nature and embrace the element of nature he had been created for: the wind.

It was a short reunion; he forced himself to travel as quickly as he could toward the airfield. He landed on the ground harshly near the gate, but the guards had missed seeing him thankfully.

Sherlock looked down the road and saw the same car that had crashed outside the witch's house. It didn't take him long to spot the humans—three of them: the Doctor's assistant, the witch, and the car's driver. He found them by a fallen tree that had taken down part of the fence. How convenient. Sherlock marched up to them and loomed as best he could at a height of a meter and a quarter. Martha looked up at him first.

"You, woman," he said briskly, forgoing pleasantries. He pointed at the woman, who didn't look incredibly surprised to see him. "You are the Doctor's assistant, correct?"

"Sure, let's call it that," she said, pursing her lips.

The dark haired man next to Martha—Newt Pulsifer, as he later learnt—squinted. "Is that a kid?"

"No, not really," Anathema Device sighed.

"Listen!" Sherlock snapped. He pointed at the air base. "The Horsemen coming. We need to get inside before they do something to the computers."

Martha, despite looking a little irritated from his comments, immediately focused and he was grateful for it. The other two humans looked a little less willing to go rushing into the base.

"What will they do to the computers?" Newt asked, wary.

"Come now," Sherlock said, scoffing. He sent the human a sarcastic look. "The only thing useful here would be the computers. No weapons to start a war—just the fire to set the flames elsewhere."

"He's right," Martha said, expression grim.

"Adam, the Anti-Christ, was certain the world would end by nuclear holocaust." Sherlock looked over at the base. "We need to stop them from setting it off."

"Stop who?" Newt asked.

"The Horsemen," Sherlock said, impatiently.

"…of the Apocalypse," Anathema finished.

"They're already here," Sherlock said. He closed his eyes and winced at the ripples in the area's aura. Great power had already descended upon the base. "I can feel them. War… Famine… Pollution…"

He shuddered at the fourth one.

"Death?" Martha prompted, glancing at him.

"Yes." Sherlock looked back up at her, grimacing. "Death is here."

Like a chill in the wind, he was there. Then again, Sherlock considered, had he ever left?

"We need to get inside the base," he said out loud, forcing the fear from his mind. They didn't have time for petty emotion.

"But the guards…" Newt murmured, looking over the field warily.

"Leave that…" Martha said, cracking her knuckles briefly, "to me."

"Lead the way, doctor," Anathema said, standing back as Martha marched onto the field.

"She's not the Doctor," Sherlock said, frowning.

Newt blinked. "No, I mean, Dr. Jones. She's a doctor, too."

Sherlock paused. "…oh."

Just then, a blaring alarm erupted from the base and Sherlock knew they were too late.

**0000**

R. P. Tyler, after having directed a swarm of bikers, a herd of children, and then a strange ventriloquist (1) to the local military base, was not exactly surprised he was directing yet another group of people to the base before he was done walking his dog.

It was a bit odd to see a blue phone booth on the corner of his street, when he distinctly remembered there not being anything there earlier. It was even odder to see three grown men sticking their head out. The one in the blue suit waved cheerfully at him.

"Excuse me, do you happen to know where a military base would be in the area?" the stranger asked.

The blond haired man next to him scowled. "How'd you know it's going to be a military base?" he asked.

"Come on, it's the end of the world," the man in the suit said. "The Horsemen, I think they'd want a nuclear war."

"Makes sense," the one in the dark sunglasses muttered.

The man in the suit turned back to Mr. Tyler. "Anyway, can you direct us to the nearest military base, please?" he asked politely.

At that point in the day, Mr. Tyler merely pointed the same way he had for the previous three groups of people who had asked him. "There's the American base, just up the road, on your left."

"Any nukes there?" the blond haired man asked, a little wary.

"Just computers," Mr. Tyler said, frowning

"Oh, well, that's even better I suppose," the stranger in the suit said. He nodded at Mr. Tyler politely. "Thank you!"

His disappeared in the box, as did his companions. Mr. Tyler snorted and walked away with his dog, thoroughly disgruntled with the way his neighborhood was turning out. Adam Young's gang of cretins were bad enough. He would send a severe letter to the local paper for this one. The local authorities needed to have better budgetary procedures than to allow non-useful expenditures like random phone booths that wouldn't be used.

When he turned around to glare at the offending object, he belatedly realized how odd it was that the men had returned inside of the box.

He also then realized how odd it was that the booth was no longer sitting on the street corner.

xxx  
(1) It was actually just Aziraphale possessing Madame Tracy while driving her bike with a very carsick Shadwell on the back.

**0000**

Getting in was the easy part. Martha had hidden with Sherlock and Anathema behind several barrels that sat near the hole in the fence while Newt stood out there smoking, waiting for an American soldier to come up to confront them. The alarm kept going, but the guard didn't seem that perturbed by it.

Newt, despite being nervous, went along with the plan they had come up with in just a few seconds time: he rambled about being part of the Witchfinder Army and held out his identification badge that his boss Shadwell had given him. The guard had been vaguely amused and distracted enough that Martha was able to get up behind him and knock him out.

"I could have done that far quicker," Sherlock muttered as they ran for the base.

"I've been itching for action," Martha shot back, not entirely lying. Just standing around while the world faced nuclear holocaust was doing terrible things to her nerves.

She really, really wished the Doctor would show up already.

Sherlock and Anathema had looked ill about something once they got inside the base, slipping in through a door in the hangar. The guards were all on the ground; Martha checked and they were merely asleep.

"What's wrong?" Martha asked, not trusting her human instincts that said nothing was overtly wrong. The supernatural members of their party had the priority when it came to sensing things going wrong at the moment.

"They've already been here. The Horsemen," Anathema said. She frowned as they crept down the hallway. "It's already begun."

Newt tripped a little. "What's begun?"

Anathema glanced at him with sad eyes. "The End."

"We should just be glad Adam is here to distract them," Sherlock murmured. "He arrived on the field just a few minutes ago. The Horsemen will go to him now."

"Move," Martha hissed, breaking into a run. Anathema directed them to where the strongest presence of the Horsemen had been. It was a back room filled with computers, as expected.

Martha stood in the middle of it all and tried to figure out what the next step was. The computers looked… normal. Sure, there was a loud humming noise, but that was to be expected in a room full of military computers, right? She couldn't see any visible sabotage. Maybe that was the point.

"The Horsemen were already here," Sherlock whispered. He looked around at the computers. He looked as he had back in London, when the Doctor told him he couldn't go back in time to help them. Rather helpless, really.

"We… we can still fix this," Martha insisted. She tried to force herself to be calm again, but it was becoming harder and harder in light of their situation. The clock was literally ticking away now. "They're computers. There has to be an off switch, or—or a counter measure!"

Anathema ran her hands down the screens. "I can't make heads or tails of this," she said, voice wavering.

Newt moved up and started to roll up his sleeves. "Maybe… maybe if we just looked around. It doesn't have to be useless yet," he said.

Abruptly, Martha was inspired. She reached over and grasped Newt's shoulder.

"You said you were a computer engineer," Martha exclaimed, heart pounding. "So, fix it!"

"Fine!" Newt stammered. He crouched to reach back into one of the cabinets and started to mess around with the wires inside. "Just give me… a second…! _Ouch_! Okay, okay, I can… look around for something to turn off!"

While Anathema complied with the request, Martha took a deep steadying breath and tried not to feel panicky as she looked around them. She had no idea if bombs had already been set off somewhere in the world—

It was then that she noticed Sherlock had tilted his head at the Newt. It was an intense stare, one that immediately told her something was wrong. The struggling man noticed the attention and flinched back when he looked over at Sherlock.

"What?" Newt asked, nervous under the demon's gaze.

A faint amused look crossed Sherlock's expression. "You're _lying_," he said, surprising Martha.

Newt turned an odd green-ish color.

**0000**

When the TARDIS landed at the gate of the airfield, they were a little late, the Doctor had announced. Lestrade took his word for it and stepped out hurriedly. He didn't know what he could do to help, but if he could at least get a bearing on what was happening, maybe something ingenious would come to him.

He was happy to see that the guard post was empty at the gate; the whole compound looked deserted save two non-military people standing around. Lestrade was less than pleased to see they were familiar faces.

"Oh, bloody hell, Shadwell's here," he exclaimed. Shadwell was standing next to the guard post, looking a little more than disheveled, and his secretary was there, too!

"Who?" the Doctor asked, emerging from the TARDIS and shutting the door.

Lestrade decided to avoid mentioning his relation to the human, just in case. "Another hunter. The one who burnt down the bookshop," he said, not quite lying.

Crowley snorted. "Aziraphale _may_ actually kill him," he said lightly. He then marched forward toward the humans. "Come on."

The two humans loitering at the gate didn't see the others approaching. "_Oh, it was an accident_," the psychic was saying once they got closer. Lestrade frowned; there was something off about her voice.

"Aziraphale," Crowley rasped. He squinted at Madame Tracey. "Nice dress."

"That's not—," Lestrade meant to say. Madame Tracey turned around and started to speak with the demon, however, which immediately told Lestrade maybe he was mistaken. It would not be the first time that day.

"There_ you are, Crowley! I didn't mean to send him away_," Aziraphale-possessing-Madame-Tracey said. He pointed at the empty security guard post. "_I had only meant to demonstrate what you usually do and now he's gone!_"

"Well, better him gone than here," Crowley offered diplomatically.

Aziraphale stared at him. "_Wait. How did you get here?_"

"Time Lord," Crowley said, nodding his head back to the TARDIS and the Doctor, who waved cheerfully over at him.

"I'm the Doctor," the alien said.

"_Pleased to meet you, I'm Aziraphale. And _you_!_" Aziraphale exclaimed, looking at Lestrade. He winced. "_Oh, dear. That's a hunter, Crowley._"

Crowley grunted. "We've met."

"_Oh_." Aizraphale seemed to accept that answer and immediately refocused his attention to more important things. "_Well, I suppose we should go stop this, right?_"

"Have you seen the Anti-Christ?" the Doctor asked.

"_Well, actually, they just passed by not too long ago—_"

Crowley made a sharp sound that earned everyone's attentions. Lestrade reluctantly looked over at the direction the demon was pointing. Out on the airfield, he saw a group of children standing in the middle of the field with bikes strewn out behind them.

There were four figures approaching the children. Lestrade didn't have words to describe what they were; they weren't human. Looking at them from that distance... it was like the four figures were there but they weren't. The red one burned dangerously with glistening sweat on her skin, while the pale creature oozed without leaving a trace. The frail creature behind him wavered like he was part of an old television set with an off-antenna. The fourth was… a dark, unmentionable presence.

The blond human boy stepped up to face those creatures with squared shoulders.

"_That's him_," Aziraphale said, sighing. "_Adam Young_."

"He's just a kid," Lestrade said, horrified. Those things approaching him—they weren't human. They were the most inhuman things he had ever _seen_. He didn't need a translation to know what they were—War, Famine, Pestilence and Death.

Everyone ignored the stunned hunter. "Well, that's why he's the Anti-Christ," Crowley muttered. He looked over at Aziraphale. "Should we?"

"_Kill him?_" Aziraphale asked. He shook his head. "_Oh, dear, I don't…_"

Adam Young seemed to be speaking with the Horsemen. Lestrade couldn't hear anything, but he could see a grin appear on the red one's—it had to be War—face as she moved forward toward the children. Lestrade's heart jumped when he saw one of the children, who had to be ordinary humans, move up to face her with what looked like a stick.

That was enough for Officer Lestrade.

"Oi, we have to help them!" he shouted, reaching for his gun.

"Who?" Crowley asked, frowning at him.

Lestrade sputtered. "The kids!" Who else was going to take those monsters down? !

"They'll be fine," the Doctor said, surprising him. The alien crossed his arms and smiled. "Better than we could handle it, I'll bet."

The curious and somewhat mollified faces of the non-humans among them made Lestrade pause, despite his best instincts telling him not to trust their opinions. "How're you so sure?" he asked, heart racing. This wasn't right, to just stand by.

Crowley nodded is head at the action. "Just watch," he said, looking vaguely impressed.

It was all Lestrade could do, stand there and watch. The redhead child—a little girl now that Lestrade had moved up a little to see—was holding up a stick that made a pathetic sword. War held up her own blade, which was a flaming sword that in no way could be beaten by something as pathetic as a toy sword made by a child.

But the moment the little girl reached out with her own sword to meet War's, something unexpected happened. War jerked and then vanished straight into the flaming sword, which dropped with a clatter onto the tarmac. Lestrade's jaw dropped.

Next, the tallest fair-headed boy brought out an odd bundle of sticks and string. He held it out and struck the staticy, frail Horseman—Famine—and Famine also vanished, leaving behind only a set of silver scales on the ground. At this point, Pollution tried to run.

The smallest child, a boy who looked like he had rolled around in the dirt judging by the patches all over him, turned to face that one. He had in his hands what looked like a circle of grass. He hurled it at the fleeing creature and, despite the fact it was clearly made out of lightweight material, hurtled through the air like a properly thrown discus. It collided with Pollution, and in a blink, there was nothing but a crown rolling around on the ground.

Adam stood in front of Death for a long moment before Death too left, without a single sign of confrontation.

The airfield fell still after that.

"Wow," Lestrade said in a minute after finding his voice, swaying a bit.

"Yeah," Crowley agreed, sounding faint. "Wow."

The Doctor reacted first and started to walk over to the group of children. Lestrade followed stiffly, trying to remind himself that the monsters were gone for the time being (well, the bad-monsters; he was still trying to ignore the fact he had willingly teamed up with a demon and an alien to get there). Everyone else seemed edgy, looking around nervously for any other creatures to appear, but despite the fact that the sky still looked bruised, there weren't any other apocalyptic events.

Only a few meters from the Anti-Christ and his three friends, the group of adults slowed. Lestrade stopped in front of an army jeep and resisted the urge to lean against it. He felt exhausted, and honestly, he hadn't done much. It was sort of unfair.

The four children finally noticed the approaching adults. Only Adam was unperturbed by the strangers. In fact, he seemed a little amused when his eyes fell on Crowley and Aziraphale.

"You're supposed t'be two people, aren't you?" the blond haired child asked, making a face at Aziraphale/Madame Tracey.

"_Well_," Aziraphale started to say, but his voice vanished from Madame Tracey and reappeared in the body of the same pudgy blond man Lestrade had seen in the bookstore. The angel looked down at his new body, which literally materialized out of thin air beside the psychic and seemed surprised. "Oh."

It was official, Lestrade thought: _**he had seen everything.**_

The Doctor seemed irrationally pleased and nodded his head. "I think the worst is over," he said, smiling at Lestrade.

"_Is_ it over?" Aziraphale asked quietly, glancing around the airfield. Lestrade saw people moving over at the hangar, but they looked like regular humans.

Looking just like an eleven-year-old, Adam scratched the side of his nose and shifted in his sneakers. "I… think so," he said.

This was all too much. Lestrade wanted answers. He wanted to know what the hell was going on and how he had gotten involved in it at all.

"…why are there _kids_ here?" Lestrade asked instead, voice cracking as he gazed around the airfield.

"Does it matter?" Crowley asked, voicing the sentiment for everyone else.

At that point in time, the sky decided to open up and send a fireball down to greet them.

**0000**

Humans never failed to astound him in ways he would never have expected.

Newt Pulsifer had floundered under the questioning of his actual computer skills. As it turned out, he wasn't a computer engineer; he was barely good with computers. He just wanted to be. Sherlock would have dismissed this as completely irrelevant and useless to their situation, but the realization dawning on him must have hit Anathema at the same time, because she didn't chide Newt either.

"You're bad with computers?" Martha asked, looking stunned. She hadn't seen it yet.

"Yes!" Newt said, his face red. "Yes, I'm bad with them, all right?"

Sherlock was grinning now. Anathema moved up closer and touched Newt's shoulder. "Oh, Newt," she said. "It is definitely all right."

"Wh-why's that?" Newt asked, confused.

"Prediction 1002," Anathema said. She brought out a lump of the cards she had brought with her in her satchel and held up one. "_'He is Not that Which He Says he Is.'_"

Newt rubbed the back of his head, biting his lip. "I was just exaggerating about being good with computers," he said, sounding sheepish. He then paused. "Why'd you think she predicted that, though?"

Anathema looked like she was gathering herself up for a confrontation. The determination in her eyes did not soften when she marched over to Newt, grabbed his hand and held it over one of the computers.

"_Fix_ it, Newt," Anathema told him firmly, eyes shining. "Make it better."

"I'm not sure I can," he said before letting his hand rest on top of the machine.

A harsh whine rose up form the machine. Sherlock watched various lights flicker and some blinked out. The hum that had been rising in the background that whole time they had been in the office reached a crescendo and then stopped abruptly, the whole process cut off.

They all held their breath for a moment.

"Gosh," Newt said in quite the understatement.

Sherlock decided to take this all as very good news.

"Let's go, Adam is outside," he said, whirling around. He spared Martha a glance; the time traveler was smiling, clearly having regained her positivity.

"How did you know he was lying?" Anathema asked, glancing over at him as they left the room.

"If there is anything I have learned to see in the last six thousand or so years," Sherlock said, smiling mirthlessly, "it's how to spot the liars."

**0000**

Outside, they had gone from momentarily confused about disappearing Horsemen to underprepared for ethereal contact. The Doctor was fascinated, though he wished had had the opportunity to greet Adam properly before the rest of the show got started.

In a burst of light, a figure appeared on the tarmac. The Doctor squinted and saw it was a man-like creature that looked like he was on fire. It was clearly one of the angels, considering it glowed a bright gold and Aziraphale made a quiet noise that could have been a whimper.

"That's the Metatron," the angel whispered.

"Who?" Lestrade asked, sounding strangled.

"The Voice of God," Aziraphale answered. The Doctor nodded and hummed thoughtfully about that.

The Metatron moved toward them at a slow pace. Before the Doctor could think about greeting the ethereal being, he saw someone running up to their side. Sherlock, with Martha, Anathema and a lanky man he'd later know was Newt Pulsifer in tow, was eyeing the Metatron with a wild expression, but circled around to get to the group of humans and their allies.

"Bloody hell, why is there _another_ kid here?" Lestrade exclaimed, thoroughly distracting the others.

"Ignore him," Crowley muttered.

"Oh, yes, _ignore_ me. That's nothing new," the dark haired child snapped. He turned his icy eyes up to the Time Lord. "Doctor, we have a problem. We managed to turn off the computers, but—"

"Oh, we've noticed," the Doctor replied, as he watched the Metatron figure approach.

Before it could get closer, Sherlock made an inhuman sound and launched up onto a nearby jeep, eyes going pitch black. The Doctor figured it was a demon thing, since Crowley also sank down low into the side of the army vehicle. Turning around, the Doctor looked at the patch of ground Metatron was also looking at. Up from the concrete bubbled another flaming figure, but this one was blood red. It loomed up from the earth and turned its fearsome gaze toward the crowd of people, but eventually turned to look directly at Adam.

"What is that?" Lestrade whispered in horror.

"_Beelzebub_," Sherlock hissed, as tense as a wild animal would be in the presence of a hunter. Crowley made an audible gulping sound.

When Beelzebub went to speak, even the Doctor couldn't understand the literal buzzing sound that came forth from him. Adam seemed to be able to hear him just fine.

"I already told them, I'm Adam," the little Anti-Christ said.

"Now then, Adam Young," Metatron interrupted, his golden face severe. "While we appreciate your assistance, you must understand that Armageddon must happen _now_."

"Why the rush?" the Doctor asked, frowning thoughtfully. Everyone rudely ignored him.

"It muzzt be decided now, boy," Beelzebub added. Ha, Lord of the Flies. The Doctor got it. "It izz thy deztiny. It is written."

Adam made a face. "Just because it's written somewhere doesn't mean it _has_ to happen," he said. "If it's about people, it can always be crossed out."

The Doctor grinned. What a smart boy.

"He's right," the Doctor said. "What's the point in having made people _people_ if you're going to punish them for being what they are…people!"

"Yeah," Adam added. "If you stop tellin' people it'll be sorted out when they're dead, maybe they'll start sortin' it out while they're alive. I thought about changing things too, but I don't want to do that anymore." He looked over at his little human friends and even spared a glance for Sherlock, who had frozen. "Havin' to take care of everybody's problems would be like tidyin' up their bedrooms for them, and that'll get annoying."

"You don't even tidy up your own bedroom," the redhead girl said.

"I never said anything about _my_ bedroom," Adam said, impatient. "It's just an ana-loggy. Anyway… it's bad enough I have to come up with things for my friends to do. I don't want to do it for everybody else, so no thank you."

Beelzebub and the Metatron exchanged a look. The Doctor looked over and saw Crowley and Aziraphale giving each other frantic, slightly-hopeful looks at the direction the conversation was headed. Even young Sherlock was stilled, staring at Adam with just a hint of awe.

"You cannot refuse this," the Metatron said.

"Yezz," Beelzebub said, a little panicky. "You cannot rebel againzzt thizz. You muzzzt understand!"

"I'm not rebelling, I'm just pointing things out," Adam said, quite rational. "Maybe, maybe people would do okay, do better, without you getting involved and fighting. I'm not saying they will for sure, but maybe they will."

"This makes no sense," the Metatron said, insistently. "You cannot run counter to the Great Plan. It is in your genes. _Think_."

A look of hesitation crossed Adam's face. He suddenly looked his age, despite the darkness in his eyes.

He was getting tired, the poor kid. The Doctor exhaled heavily. Adam looked ready to give in.

"We had a chance," Crowley whispered in the background, sounding pained. "I thought, maybe, he had them on the fence—"

"This Great Plan," someone said suddenly, "it is the _ineffable_ plan, is it not?"

"Sherlock?" the Doctor asked, surprised. The little demon stood firmly, glaring up at the Voice of God and Beelzebub.

"The Great Plan," the Metatron told him coolly. "You of all creatures should know it. The world shall last for six thousand years and then—"

"Yes, that's the Great Plan, but is it truly part of the ineffable plan your kin have espoused for this long?" Sherlock asked, his face guarded. "I just wanted to be clear that is the same thing."

"It doesn't matter!" the Metatron said, irritable. "It's the same thing, surely!"

"_Surely_?" Martha repeated, honing in on the word, clever as always. She looked over at Aziraphale and Crowley quickly before looking back at the two creatures before them. "You're not sure, then?"

"It doesn't—!" the Metatron started to say.

"You're not one-hundred percent sure?" Aziraphale asked, jumping in. The Voice of God sent him a disparaging look.

Crowley stood up, too. "That perhaps the Great Plan isn't part of the ineffable Plan, after all?" he said, speaking quickly. He was smiling. "It's only a small part of it, after all, if it is. You can't be sure what's happening now is right, from an ineffable point of view."

Beelzebub rippled dangerously. "It izz written!"

"Perhaps this isn't just a test of the world," the Doctor said, catching their attentions. He smirked at the Metatron specifically. "Maybe it's a test of you and your kind. Ever think of that?"

"God does not play games with his loyal servants," the Metatron said, glaring.

Crowley chuckled lowly. "Where have you _been_?" His serpentine eyes shone brightly.

A tense silence fell. The Doctor crossed his arms and waited. Adam stood firmly and smiled at the Metatron and Beelzebub, having found his own sensibilities. The air cleared a little, as if the storm was finally dissipating up above them.

"I think I shall need to seek further instruction," the Metratron said abruptly.

"I alzzo," Beelzebub said. He glared over at Adam. "I do not want to know what _thy father_ will say."

They both vanished in a burst of light. Shadwell had raised his gun at the two figures, but other than that, the humans had frozen up, staring at the empty space where the Metatron and Beelzebub had been standing.

The non-humans reacted far more quickly.

"You know what happened?" Crowley asked excitedly, grabbing the angel's arm. "He was raised human. This whole time… he was just raised human!"

"And it has made the difference, hasn't it?" Aziraphale murmured, looking a bit worn out.

Sherlock peered around wildly. "It's over, then?" he asked.

"Yes," Crowley said. He frowned. "I guess we're alive?"

The angel next to him beamed. "Just imagine how terrible it might have been if we'd been at all competent!"

Sherlock buried his head into his hands. The Doctor merely grinned. This had turned out all right after all. Martha smiled at him and nudged him in the side. The Apocalypse had been averted. It had been a good day, all in all.

Despite looking worn down, Adam seemed to be in higher spirits as well. He turned to smile at his little group of friends and noticed the others hanging around.

"_There_ you are, Sherlock," Adam said, frowning. "Where were you?"

"Inside, stopping a nuclear holocaust," Sherlock replied simply. He motioned beside him at the alien. "Allow me to introduce you to the Doctor."

"Doctor who?" the light haired, serious-looking boy next to the little red headed girl asked.

The Doctor moved up and waved at the humans cheerfully. "Hello, boys and miss!" He crouched in front of Adam. "I don't believe we've met, have we?"

"This is Adam Young, the Anti-Christ," Sherlock said, though he knew the Doctor knew that already. He pointed at the other humans with less interest. "And associates."

Adam nodded. "Yeah. That's Pepper, Wensleydale and Brian." He squinted up at the Doctor. "Who're you?"

"I'm the Doctor," he replied. "I've just been along for the ride mostly, but good show, Adam. Very good show."

"You think?" Adam asked, eyes wider in the surprise a child had at unexpected praise.

It made the Doctor smile kindly. "Yes," he said. He held up his hand in an open high-five. "You did really, really good."

Adam looked at him with those soulful eyes and seemed to be wondering if the Doctor was being truthful. Eventually, Adam smiled and returned the high-five with a powerful slap. The Doctor chuckled and stood up.

Behind him, Lestrade had moved up. He appeared skittish, but the human also looked ready to get as far from the airfield as he could. The Doctor was happy to see that the young man was still looking out for those he thought needed help. He'd make a good cop, that one.

"All right, time to get you kids home," Lestrade said, sounding utterly spent. He held up a badge and nodded at the four kids and Sherlock. "I'm Officer Greg Lestrade. Where're all you kids from?"

Sherlock made a face. "You're a hunter," he said. Adam and his friends sent him a curious look.

Lestrade hesitated. "I'm a _cop_."

"Barely," Sherlock said, sneering. "You've only signed onto the force yesterday."

"How—how did you know _that_?" Lestrade sputtered.

"Your badge is temporary, and besides that, it's hardly worn," Sherlock said, pointing at the badge. "Your unwillingness to assign yourself to the category of a hunter and your insistence on being referred to as a police officer demonstrate a vigor usually corresponding with new attachment and recently made conviction." He shrugged. "Besides, you're young. You couldn't possibly have been in the police for very long."

Lestrade looked just as stunned as he had when the Metatron had shown up. "Who're you?" the officer asked.

"Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock offered. He abruptly grinned, all too childlike despite a flash of black eyes. The Doctor laughed. "I'm a demon."

"What the fuck?" Lestrade asked, horrified, taking a step back.

Sherlock laughed, though it wasn't entirely based in humor. His eyes changed back to normal. "Careful, I'm only eleven. Mummy would not approve of that sort of language." Next to him, Adam was grinning.

Lestrade turned around, red in the face. "This entire town's gone mad—!" he started to say, ignoring the Doctor's smile.

Beneath them all, the ground rumbled. Everyone froze. Adam turned slowly, his eyes blankly staring out at the center of the airfield. The Doctor felt the Earth heave upwards and the skies again grew black.

Suddenly, it was not quite over.

**0000**

All at once, Crowley realized the End would not go quietly into the night. He had known it was too soon to be celebrating surviving the apocalypse. There was always a catch, especially to averting total annihilation of the earth. The ineffable Plan was bloody miserable like that.

He stood on uneven feet as the ground quaked beneath the airfield. He looked over at Aziraphale quickly and they both knew what was coming.

"It's Him," Aziraphale said, face gaunt.

The Devil was breaking from the Cage.

At first, Crowley thought that was against the rules. The Cage was the Cage; it was impossible to open and unbreakable. Only at the advent of the apocalypse would the Cage be permitted to open and Lucifer be free to walk the Earth. Briefly, he realized that maybe the cosmos didn't need an Anti-Christ to start it after all.

Maybe all of this had been in vain.

The air was filled with the stench of sulfur and molten earth. Crowley took a step back and considered getting into the jeep to run. This was beyond anything they were capable of handling.

"Is it a volcano?" Lestrade asked loudly.

"Whatever it is, it's angry," Martha stammered, wobbling over to the Doctor, who at long last, looked mildly concerned.

Crowley decided to get into the jeep to leave. The only thing that stopped him was the sight of Aziraphale walking toward Adam Young.

"What are you doing?" Crowley asked, startled.

Aziraphale sent him a sad look. "They're only human," he said, gesturing around them at the unfortunate assembly of people. "We should help them."

"And what, go against Him?" Crowley asked, horrified. "Are you crazy?"

"No," the angel replied. He bent down and picked up War's sword. "Think about it, dear. We've gotten them into enough trouble over the years as it is, you and me."

Aziraphale lifted the blade and the flames sprung up all over it once more. The angel smiled and held it up in the air, even as the ground's shaking grew worse.

"It's been years since I've handled this last," he said

"More like six thousand," Crowley muttered.

He looked at the bulging ground and could hear the rhythmic beat of his own heart matching up with the cracking of the ethereal bonds that held the Great Beast down below.

Crowley smiled bitterly.

"Why not?" he asked, pushing his sunglasses up further.

He reached into the jeep to pick up a crowbar. It would do.

"You coming, Zephyr?" Crowley asked, glancing over his shoulder at Sherlock as they moved to confront the devil.

"I do not see a reason why not, as you said," the little demon said. He smiled mirthlessly and a burst of air erupted around him, like a cocoon. "This was my home, too."

Lestrade and Shadwell both had their guns out, pointing at the epicenter, where hot red light had begun to leak through. The Doctor and Martha glanced at each other and nodded resolutely. Newt and Anathema also shared a look before marching forward, weaponless but ready all the same.

Crowley glanced over at Aziraphale, who smiled back.

"If we don't get out of this, I'd just like to let you know that deep down, I've always thought there was a spark of goodness in you," the angel said, offering a hand.

The demon offered him back a weak grin and a firm handshake. "Nice knowing you. And Aziraphale? Know that you were just enough of a bastard to be worth liking."

Just like that, they turned back to face the Devil. On their backs, their wings unfurled, since going out in style should have meant going out in their true forms (or as close as they could get without vaporizing the mortals). The ground shrieked and rolled as the Cage began to cave in. It was only a matter of time.

In hindsight, no one thought to look back at Adam, whom the Devil was coming for. No one thought to consider the son who had disappointed his father by refusing destiny. It was always the little things, like a child, that ended up being missed at first.

But Adam was on his own ground. Always, and ultimately, on his own ground. (1)

Crowley stopped dead in his tracks when the whole world shifted. The rumbling stopped and the ground seemed to level out as if plowed down by an invisible wave. Crowley blinked.

In the next moment, there was no bulge in the earth and no Lucifer crawling out of the ground. A car had driven up and out of it stepped an oddly familiar human Crowley had met eleven years ago in a hospital maternity ward.

"Adam!" Mr. Young shouted, calling for his son, because frankly, that's what it was really about, wasn't it? "Where are you? I've been looking all over the place for you!"

Crowley was awed.

A series of things happened. Adam and the Them took off for their bikes, running not from the epitome of all evil, but just a regular parent. Mr. Young huffed and got back into his car. Both the angel and fallen angel present were forced to fold their wings out of sight. Aziraphale tried to hide the flaming sword and the hunters none-too-discreetly did the same with their guns. Mr. Young spared them the quickest of looks, but got back into his car to drive back out of the airfield, presumably to get home before his soon-to-be grounded son did.

As the small car drove off the tarmac and silence fell over the airfield, the remaining occupants left standing were at first uncertain.

"That was him, wasn't it?" Sherlock asked, breaking the silence. He looked around them slowly, eyes wide. "Adam did this."

Adam had changed out one father for another, because the only father an eleven year old would know would be the one to raise him.

The Doctor barked out a loud laugh and looked as if they had just won a great game. Crowley choked on his own laugh and dropped the tire iron on the ground with a loud clang.

What a fucking day.

"Oops, I'll be right back," the Doctor said suddenly. He turned and jogged over to the TARDIS. Crowley frankly did not care what the alien had just thought of; he was more concerned with celebrating survival by standing there and breathing.

Breathing was suddenly really, really nice.

There was an odd moment where no one really knew what to do. Shadwell was still unsure about the now-flat tarmac and was prodding it with his shotgun. Madame Tracey stood back to let Martha and Anathema investigate it, but the threat was gone. Crowley glanced to the side and saw Aziraphale, having put the sword down again, heading over to one of the other remaining humans: Lestrade.

The police officer/hunter had done no more real help than the other humans had, really, but Crowley thought the bloke was an all right fellow to go have drinks with. For a hunter, he didn't seem to quite grasp the idea of that's-a-demon-go-kill-it, though Crowley was not complaining.

Aziraphale, however, seemed to disagree and walked up in front of the slightly taller human, who immediately froze up in the angel's presence.

"What're you doing?" Lestrade asked, eyes wider with concern.

Aziraphale smiled, undaunted. "You're a hunter, aren't you?" he asked. He looked over at Shadwell and shrugged. "Your uncle, too, but he's rather harmless, in a violent sort of way, isn't he? I just mean, he won't actually be a threat to anyone later for this."

Lestrade squinted his eyes, as if that would help him to see the creature in front of him. "What are you, anyway?" he asked.

"I thought the wings would have been the biggest clue," Aziraphale said, amused. His wings were hidden again, but there had been no mistaking what the others had seen when Aziraphale and Crowley had walked out there.

"You're really an angel?" Lestrade asked, voice faint.

"Yes."

"There's no such thing," the hunter said. Crowley almost felt bad for the poor bloke.

"Exactly," Aziraphale said kindly, touching the human's forehead deliberately.

Newt yelped when Lestrade pitched backwards and he barely caught the police officer. Crowley frowned a little; wiping memories was a bit big of a miracle for Aziraphale to be risking at a time when Heaven wasn't pleased with their Earth operative, but it was necessary, he supposed.

Especially if the Earth was actually going to be sticking around and the local demons (including himself) intended to stay as well. The thought made Crowley smile a bit.

"Was that necessary?" Sherlock asked, sounding more curious than anything else, as he peered at the human.

"He knows a bit too much for a sane hunter," Aziraphale said, glancing over at the demon with a schooled look. "As much as I know you like to be a solitary creature, Zephyr, it would be best not to let the local hunters know a demon is possessing the alias of a child, hmm?"

The other demon shrugged. Crowley knew Sherlock had already counted that as a possibility. The spirit was ridiculously intelligent. It was for everyone's benefit that Lestrade forgot this whole thing happened. (2)

Newt looked a little nervous under the shadow of the nonhumans, but before he could say anything, Anathema, Martha and Shadwell came up.

"Poor guy's fainted," Crowley offered dully when the humans noticed Lestrade on the ground.

Shadwell snorted and raised a fuss about his "Southern pansy" nephew and that "real Witchfinders" would never faint after a successful mission. Anathema sent both Aziraphale and Crowley a cool glare, but said nothing.

"We'll take them back to town," Newt said quietly, meaning Shadwell, Madame Tracey and Lestrade, who was being hefted up by Shadwell and Martha. He frowned. "You think they'd mind us stealing their car?"

"After everything else that's happened? Nah," Crowley said, shrugging. "Just don't drive all the way home with it."

"Right." Newt flinched when Aziraphale turned around to face him. "Um. You aren't going to be removing my memories, are you?"

The angel blinked, confused. "Why would I do that? You aren't a hunter, are you?"

"Nope!" Newt smiled in a completely unconvincing manner. "Not at all!"

"He is with me, after all," Anathema said, coming to his aid. She discreetly took his hand in hers and pointed at herself with her other hand. "Witch."

After hauling Lestrade into the back of the jeep, Martha hopped down and nodded. "That is true," she said with a smile.

Anathema took one more look around their odd group and nodded. "We'll be going," she said, moving as if to lead Newt back to the jeep.

"Ms. Device!" the Doctor shouted, surprising them. He emerged from the TARDIS with a particular item in hand. He jogged over to hand a stunned Anathema Agnes Nutter's book. "I believe this belongs to you."

The witch looked up at him with round eyes. "Thank you," she said.

Aziraphale nodded. "Take care now," he said, waving slightly as Anathema, Newt and Shadwell climbed up into the jeep with Lestrade in it. Madame Tracey was already sitting in the front, looking quite pleased with how the day turned out, even though she probably didn't have a clue as to what did happen.

Crowley cracked his neck and sighed. He watched the jeep drive off the field and felt oddly… at peace.

"Boy, this was a lot of fun, wasn't it?" the Doctor said, grinning. He tucked his hands into his pockets. "I wonder where Grievous Bodily Harm and his pals went?"

"_What_?" Aziraphale and Crowley both asked, startled.

"Don't worry about it," Martha told them, laughing. The angel and demon exchanged a look, but said nothing.

"We gotta be moving out," the Doctor said. "It was good meeting you all. Tell Lestrade that—oh, well, never mind, I guess."

Sherlock was smiling, which was an odd sight, even though it was more like a smirk. "Goodbye, Doctor," he said to the alien.

The Doctor crouched and grinned. "I'll be seeing you, eh, Sherlock?"

"I will always be here," Sherlock replied. He suddenly held his hands up and Crowley winced when he saw War's sword in his hands. When had he—? ! "You should take this."

"That's not mine," the Doctor said immediately, though he did look curious.

"For safe keeping," Sherlock said. He looked back at Aziraphale deliberately, before the angel could argue. It wasn't really Aziraphale's blade anymore, and without War, it didn't have an owner.

The Doctor hesitated. "You think?" he asked quietly, his brow furrowed.

Sherlock smiled mirthlessly. "I like to have an ace in the hole when needed," he said.

"Aziraphale?" the Doctor asked, looking up at the angel.

"I can hardly lay claim to it now," Aziraphale said slowly, frowning. "It hasn't been mine for, well, ages."

"Thousands of years," Crowley supplied.

The angel seemed conflicted, though Crowley vaguely saw the point in Sherlock's argument. They had no telling what sort of trouble Heaven and Hell might throw at them in the future. War's sword could only be used in the hands of someone it was meant for—specifically Aziraphale now—but maybe it didn't hurt to have a weapon safely tucked away where their enemies could not reach it easily. Just in case.

Crowley grimaced; apparently, his bosses were his enemies now. That wasn't a new thing, though, he had to admit.

"Well," the Doctor said carefully. He took the blade and it didn't react; interesting. "I'll keep a hold of it. If you change your mind."

Sherlock watched as the alien stood up. "Where will you go next?" he asked.

"Who knows?" the Doctor said, his humor returning. "It'll be great, that's all I know. Good luck, everyone!"

"Stay safe," Martha added, waving as she and the Doctor headed back to the TARDIS.

The remaining three figures watched (Aziraphale was the only one who waved back) as the two time travelers got back into the TARDIS. There was a low sound as the ship started its take-off sequence. The blue phone booth eventually faded from sight and that was it.

Aziraphale looked over at his associate. "I suppose we should get going, too," he said. The humans were already stirring all over the base.

Crowley nodded in agreement and then glanced back at the other demon in front of him. "You coming along, Zephyr?" he asked.

The dark haired demon shook his head. "No…" Sherlock said. He tucked his hands into his pockets and became a gaunt little statue. "I have a ride coming, I'm sure."

"Thanks," Aziraphale said, smiling kindly. "For the help."

"It's my planet too, you know," Sherlock replied dryly. "You're not the only ones who have been here since the beginning."

Both angel and demon shared a look. "True," Crowley said. "See you around, I guess."

Sherlock closed his eyes. "Hmm."

They left him on the tarmac and went over to commandeer one of the other military jeeps. Crowley climbed up into the driver's seat and dearly wished he had brought the Bentley with him, but he was glad that it had escaped the apocalypse without any damage. Aziraphale got into the passenger side and sighed heavily, falling back into the seat.

Aziraphale glanced at the demon. "Shall we go get a drink, then?" (3)

"Oh, angel," Crowley said as he put the jeep into gear, "I thought you'd never ask."

xxx  
(1) _Good Omens_, page 343. Because little boys never listen to their fathers, and good for it.  
(2) Lestrade only remembered a vague sense of something going terribly wrong while going out to investigate a bookstore, but he promptly blamed Shadwell, who's story about winged Southern Pansies earned him a sigh and lecture about setting buildings on fire and getting Lestrade injured.  
(3) And then, they got shitfaced drunk.

**0000**

It was nearly seven o'clock by the time Mycroft got to the airfield. He had gotten a call from his supervisor that someone at the American military base was calling for him. The news that the base had been attacked by terrorists had been all over the office, but Mycroft had never expected to have his name involved in it.

At least until he took the call and realized that his name was involved. His little brother had been picked up by the Americans and he had told them to call Mycroft Holmes, his brother, who "worked for the government."

Oh, he was going to kill that demonic brat. He didn't know how, but after three years, Mycroft finally decided he was going to learn how to do it.

After handing in his report that contained no actually information about how five tons of uranium had abruptly vanished into thin air and then reappeared back in its proper place, Mycroft commandeered a driver and headed to the Tadfield air base. It was in shambles, and for a moment, Mycroft unwillingly considered the possibility that his brother had caused the damage to the front gates.

But that thought thankfully vanished when he saw his eleven-year-old (though not really) brother standing next to an American soldier. Sherlock merely looked grumpy, not particularly guilty or, well, demonic. For whatever reason, that made Mycroft instantly angry.

Mycroft wordlessly let his driver handle the Americans. He had a bone to pick with the imp now alone on the tarmac in front of him.

"Where have you _been_, Sherlock?" he demanded. He marched over to the sullen child, who had the nerve to be sulking. "Why are you here? _How_ did you get here? !"

"I walked here," Sherlock said, almost as a mutter. His clothes were filthy.

Mycroft stopped in front of him and placed his hands on his hips. "Whatever for? !"

Sherlock dug his hands into his pockets. "I…" he started, stopping with a look that seemed genuinely boyish.

Breathing out sharply, Mycroft refused to fall for it.

"I was just lost," Sherlock finally said, more bitter than contrite.

Mycroft shook his head. "_Get_ in the car. Mummy is furious," he said; he was too.

He none-too-gently pushed Sherlock toward the open car door and the boy slid in. Mycroft marched around to the other side.

"You could have done irreparable damage to the British government's relationship with the American military," he said, slamming his door shut before the driver could shut it for him. All at once, the rational sense he usually had left him and he just wanted to yell at his brother—who wasn't even his brother, but that was beside the point. "Did you _see_ the damage to the front of the gate? Did you witness the terrorist attack? I had to make several calls to be able to pick you up without international incident. If this gets back to Father, he will be furious—"

The silence during his tirade was unusual, since Sherlock normally took pleasure in snapping back at his brother, especially when being lectured. Mycroft turned and looked at his little brother. Sherlock was sunken into the leather seat and seemed…distant.

Mycroft paused, finally noticing the dark circles under Sherlock's eyes and torn jacket.

"…Sherlock?" he asked, anger ebbing slightly.

Sherlock closed his eyes—his human ones—and seemed to draw in on himself.

"I want to go home, please, brother," Sherlock said, quietly. "I'm…"

Mycroft waited and the little boy next to him seemed to collect himself. Mycroft was used to Sherlock being too adult-like and in control of nearly every aspect of his life. That's what made him so unnerving, even before Mycroft had discovered he wasn't human. Mycroft could not remember a time that Sherlock ever looked like a little boy.

"I'm tired," Sherlock whispered, looking every bit like a rundown eleven-year-old.

Mycroft, despite himself, believed it.

"…Drive," he said, speaking to the driver who obeyed. The car lurched forward and Mycroft sat back with a sour expression.

Sherlock would be the death of him, he was certain.

**0000**

**St. James' Park, London  
Sunday**

Sometimes, things did just wind up going right, even for unlucky fellows like Crowley and Aziraphale.

Aziraphale's bookshop came back. The content was a little different, but Adam was only eleven. At least the children's books were all in mint condition and thus were worth quite a bit. Crowley returned to his flat and found it approximately the same as it had been. Even his plants remained the same. In a magnanimous gesture, he did not threaten them for a whole week.

After that, things were supposed to go back to normal. To the credit of the universe and its habit of being unfair, things sort of did, for at least a little while.

The day after the end of the end of the world, Aziraphale and Crowley met back at the park to feed the ducks. It was quiet, save the usual ensemble of shady characters meeting each other for exchanges of intel and products along the pond, but the angel and the demon standing on the edge of the water paid them little attention.

Crowley threw a piece of bread at a duck and didn't try to sink it when the bird caught the food.

"I wonder what they will do next," Aziraphale murmured, brushing crumbs from his hands once the bread was all gone.

"You think more's coming?" Crowley asked.

Aziraphale laughed, a little derisively. "I don't know if you remember Raphael (1), but there will always been another move," he said. His expression was wistful. "I just hope they give us all a little time to recuperate."

Crowley hummed in agreement and tried not to imagine what a Plan B would look like. The Anti-Christ was out, at the very least. He could not fathom how they'd make another one, so perhaps the next plan would be easier to interfere with. Or worse. He had no idea.

It would not last, the peace they had around for now. Crowley gazed up at the blue sky and wondered when the next shoe would drop. Probably right on his head.

Heaven was bitter and would not forget this. Hell would never forgive, but it might just forget if Crowley managed to do something particularly awful to gain favor. He didn't really want to think about it right then.

They still had a few more days of peace and quiet, he figured. He'd make the best of it while he could.

"Oi, angel," he said, turning to face his companion.

Aziraphale glanced back at him. "Yes, dear?"

Six thousand years was not an eternity, but that was rather irrelevant. Whatever came next, be it another six thousand years or somewhere before or after that, Crowley would be willing to fight for that piece of time.

The only blessing was that he did not have to worry about it alone.

"Thanksss," he said, giving a crooked smile.

The angel beamed. "It's my pleasure, dear," he said, linking arms with the demon.

"Lunch?" (2)

"Of course."

xxx  
(1) Crowley did in fact remember Raphael, that pompous shit.  
(2) They split the bill.

**0000**

**North of Glastonbury, Somerset  
One Day (Incredibly Late) After the End of the World.**

The skies turned black. The seas had boiled. A great storm had risen to the east at the center of the country. Great danger came on swift wings and he knew that those were the signs he had been waiting for.

It was also _all wrong_.

He had seen it in the papers and fled the village he had stopped at. As a rule, he avoided contact with larger venues of information sources, but perhaps he should have that time. Nothing had felt wrong, not really, but that day, he had woken to chaos. Not just among men—because there was panic and confusion there, mostly over far-away events and a storm toward the center of England—but also in nature.

He could feel the ley lines twist, even at that great distance. Something great and powerful was happening west of London, in Oxfordshire, but the wizard did not go there. That was where the danger was, but before he could tend to it, he had one greater task.

But it was far too early. He saw the signs and knew it was time, but it was also too early.

He didn't understand it.

"Can't be late. Can't be," the old man said, stumbling slightly on the roadside. He kicked dead leaves off his boot and kept moving, as fast as he could. "It's far too early, isn't it?"

When night had fallen and dawn rose, the air had changed again. It felt lighter and the storms seemed to have receded. But the magic in the region had shifted. Something had changed and it wasn't supposed to.

Going off the road, he stumbled through the forests. He had to get to the lake and then…

He stopped at the crest of a hill and looked over his shoulder the way he had come. He tried to catch his breath.

"No, no, no, too early!" he stammered. It had to be. He—he couldn't have _missed_ it.

This was what he had been waiting for, this moment. For the last thousand years, he had waited and prepared. He had not known what the exactly moment or event would be, but he knew it wasn't supposed to be that era that needed their king.

This wasn't supposed to happen.

"Maybe not," he whispered, teetering on the ledge as he scrambled on the hilltop, the staff only barely keeping him steady. "Maybe…not. Can't be late, though. Can't be."

He had watched the signs. This was not the time, but yet… it had all come up so suddenly. So suddenly.

Gritting his teeth, he barreled the rest of the way down the hill. His body was old, but that would not stop him. He did not fall and rushed across the winding country road. He had traveled that path many times in the last millennia. He would never forget where his heart truly lied or where his destiny would ultimately take him.

When he finally did reach the correct side of the road, he realized that his haste had not been needed. Whatever was happening to the east was not what had been fated. It simply was not.

_When_ had never been the question, not really. It was inevitable that it would and that was enough to know.

Reaching the fence, the great wizard Merlin caught his breath and his eyes found what they had been seeking.

The old man smiled tenderly at the distant island and he gripped his staff to keep himself upright.

"Hello, Arthur," he whispered.

The once and future king would return when the time was right.

.

* * *

**End **_**The Apocalypse That Never Was**_**.**

* * *

.

Next, Crowley makes some business choices when that other shoe finally drops.

**A/Ns**:  
-I took many dialogue parts from the novel when I had to, without making it an overburdened repeat of the novel.  
-Sherlock has already tinkered with the notion of solving crimes (the Carl Powers case) but will not be picking up that line of work professionally for another nineteen years or so. Refer to _Building Down_.  
-I did mix up the timeline a bit for _Good Omens_, concerning the Bikers of the Apocalypse, the Horsemen of the Apocalypse, and the Doctor meeting. Their meeting happens a bit earlier here than it does in the book.  
-In compliance with _Good Omens_ and _Supernatural_ lore, let's just imagine that the Cage where Lucifer was cast into had the potentiality of breaking open on Adam's apocalypse. And then it didn't. Whoops. Lucifer must have been so pissed, man.  
-No, Crowley and Aziraphale do not lose their memories of the Apocalypse in this 'verse. That would not work for future events.  
-Merlin, you may want to take a rain check on that resurrection, bro.  
-This was a million pages too long holy shit


	6. Through the Quiet

_**Small World  
**_"**Through the Quiet"  
**by Nan00k

The Winchesters had a family of four during those long nights on the road. Too bad the three humans never noticed that fourth member. From 1973 to 2010, they were not alone. Superformers. AU. Part of the Small World series.

Due to the fact I finished this installment before I finished the real next installment, I decided to post it anyway, because the next one will take me a long time. Sorry for the change-up, if you were expecting more Crowley.

For those reading this for the SuperWhoLock, I do apologize for the sudden inclusion of an unexpected fandom. But bear with me. I promise, these aliens are pretty good guys. It allll works out, promise.

For those who were waiting for the Superformers… you all saw THIS coming. ;)

.

* * *

**Disclaimers**: _Supernatural_ © Kripke/CW. _Transformers_ © Hasbro/Dreamworks. _Doctor Who_ © BBC.  
**Warnings**: foul language, descriptive violence, science(-fiction), massive cross-over, alternative-universe for multiple fandoms, canon character deaths.

* * *

.

They were never supposed to come to Earth.

The name of the planet was utterly unimportant up until the point he crashed through its mesosphere with leaking energon boiling up behind him in the upper atmosphere. His systems were failing and pain laced through every circuit—but he had just enough time and coherency to hack into the planet's telecommunications systems to learn the language of the native species. He could only compile the vast quantities of grainy images and sounds briefly when he passed their satellites.

Then, he crashed into a field of tall grass and mud and went offline for nearly twenty planetary cycles.

When he came back online, literally hundreds of errors were on his HUD feed. Telecommunications were down, hydraulics in both legs and right arm were not responding, protoform shields were torn to Pit and back… he had quite literally nearly fallen apart.

Laying there in the muck of an alien (and _organic_ at that) world, he did manage to break down what had happened to him. And his team.

They had only been reconnaissance, tracking down rumors of the All Spark's location via Decepticon transmissions Jazz's squad had decoded nearly a vorn ago. Shockwave's exploratory team had found them just outside of the edge of the planet's solar system. There was no sign of survivors on either side—Smokescreen's leadership had fallen apart in mere astro-klicks, with the Decepticon scouts slamming into their unit without any warning.

The survivor of the Autobot team managed to extract himself from the brief, violent skirmish, but he had not expected to survive the trip to the nearest planet with intelligent life forms. Getting to Earth had been a miracle. Then again, Primus seemed to have been slacking on the miracles as of late. Perhaps it had just been luck.

Luck did not last for very long, no matter where one was in the universe. Earth's native species—humans, in the dominant Earth language of English—were not space-faring. They had only achieved sentience through evolutionary tracts in the last twenty-thousand rotations around their star. They were infants compared to the long-lived, ancient Cybertronians. Even he was older than their species' agricultural history.

He had broken protocol coming to that planet. The humans were a protected species under Autobot law. Interfering, or interacting with them, was a punishable offense.

He had no choice, however. He tried to reestablish contact with Autobot command, but there were no comm. buoys anywhere in this sector. He was afraid of the Decepticons having survived the skirmish after all and hunting him down. Worse, his outgoing messages could attract Shockwave to Earth.

Earth... would not survive Shockwave. Not yet. Not for a very long time.

He returned to the data he had taken from their networking satellites. All of it was primitive. They called it television. It was entertainment and news sharing. Judging from the local airwaves he was receiving, he landed in the dominant nation called United States of America. It was a year they called 1972, though that made little sense, because they had been around much longer than two thousand solar cycles. Their nations were much like Cybertron's city-states, though these organics seemed far more divided by menial differences and had hundreds more of those nations than Cybertron ever did. The dominant language was easily enough to compile through the airwaves. Soon enough, he had a solid lexicon. He shut the communications connection down; it drained his reserves too quickly.

Their current situation globally seemed dire. A conflicting nation called the Soviet Union posed nuclear threats to the United States. That was a troubling thought. Wars in nations far to the east also created turmoil within the United States. It was a bad time to appear as an alien, he realized. His luck continued to spiral downwards when he realized that he could not stand out in his protoform. He was severely injured and the environment of Earth was not up to handling extraterrestrial encounters.

He forced his abused systems to activate the transcan module when he finally found a road out there in the countryside. He hit a passing vehicle fitting his size—a 1967 Chevrolet Impala he learned in hindsight—and transformed.

It nearly killed him. Quite literally. He slammed onto the side of the road, systems heaving and sparking. The pain nearly sent him offline again. He wished he had; the pain was too much to bear. The transformation sequence almost stopped in mid-motion. It was only with great precision that he managed to force the action through and he slammed down onto part of the black road, his engines and systems steaming up the cold air.

Critical systems failure warnings blocked his vision again. He was dying faster than his self-repair could fix the problems.

He needed energon. He needed… to survive. He couldn't give up.

In agony, he propelled himself forward. He couldn't go further than a few feet—such an odd measurement in human tongue—and found himself stranded in his own thoughts and burning wires.

For a long, long night, he wanted to just fade away. It hurt so much.

At the dawn of another day, a human stopped behind him. They were tinier up close, with beady eyes and soft flesh that looked like it would melt in the sun. The creature left and then came back with more. They hooked the back of the stranded Impala to another vehicle with a crane.

He decided to take it as another miracle when they dragged him back to civilization.

**0000**

**Lawrence, Kansas  
1973**

His race had evolved to be adaptable, far more so than the humans ever did with their flimsy armor called clothing. He could survive extreme heat and the extreme cold of space, but his main defense had always been transformation. He was lucky that the species here had evolved to the point where they had machinery. If he had landed just decades—batches of ten planetary cycles, he calculated—ago, he would have nothing to pose as to hide.

Human vehicles, called cars vernacularly, were barely adequate sizes. The oversized hood of the vehicle he had chosen would be able to cope with the internal mechanisms, but he was very glad he had a model that could handle the claustrophobic conditions. Someone like the Prime would never be able to hide amongst the humans.

The cramped conditions worked when he was left alone, but the humans who had dragged him on unresisting wheels—which he had to simulate the rubber quality; the material was just as foreign as anything else the humans had developed from natural resources here—had not let him sit on their odd lot full of other human cars in peace. They talked amongst themselves about what to do with the "free merchandise" they had found on the road.

They were merchants of cars, he learned. They intended to sell him to someone who needed a car. While the idea of being sold like a hunk of scrap was not his idea of a good time, the injured Impala gradually understood that humans took care of their cars generally. He needed the fuel more than he needed his pride, as much as it burned.

The engineers of the merchants—or rather, mechanics he learned later—pried his hood open only after he reluctantly allowed them access. He had to let them investigate what they thought they were selling. He had to hide long enough to get out of his situation alive. They never saw anything more than what he wanted them to, at any rate.

He was in a place called Kansas. He later learned it was specifically Lawrence, Kansas. It was an obscure location, but there always seemed to be humans everywhere…humans who crowded the merchant lot and made purchases out of the other vehicles there. He was not exempt from those activities.

The humans ran their hands all over his hood all day long. He cringed away at the dull, oily touch. Organics were gross. He did not dare move away, however. Even the dimmest human would notice a self-propelled car, he had learned early on. He could only endure the poking and prodding.

Until…he wasn't sure. He still could not risk open communications. He doubted he'd be able to hail any Autobots nearby, even if the Decepticons were actually gone. The human fuel—gasoline—was foul and barely energized his form. He tried to conserve as much as he could by remaining in stasis for weeks on end.

He was bought once, when he had been online, but the new owner returned him within eight hours due to the fuel consumption. They were displeased with having to spend the currency on obtaining fuel to run his systems. They just called him a "gas-guzzler" and the merchants tried to gloss over those words when selling him.

He remained on the lot after that for months. It was a boring existence, but he had hope that maybe, he could become stronger. They did not fuel him regularly, however, just sitting there. He spent most of his days in voluntary stasis, feeling more and more trapped every time he woke.

Then, one day, a year after his rescue by human hands, everything changed. One human did not differ greatly from the next, but the three he encountered that day stood out in his processors, all for very different reasons.

It was early in the light cycle—day—when a dark haired human spoke with one of the merchants about purchasing a bulky "van" that was parked next to the Impala. The view of the exchange was blocked from his sensors when another human, hunched and surly, leaned against his front bumper. It was innocuous, but something about the way the new human peered at the dark haired one made the Impala wanted to draw in on himself.

The surly one had come up to the lot being tailed by a tall man in a blue suit, who said nothing at first and only watched both men when the surly one spoke out to the first man. The surly one told the dark haired man to not buy the van. Instead… he turned their attention to the Impala, who was immediately intrigued.

"You know something about cars?" the dark haired man asked. The emotions in his expression suggested amusement.

"Yeah," the surly one said, in a manner that seemed even odder, "my dad taught me everything I know. And this? This is a great car."

They fumbled with his hood. He did not resist and peered up at them as they stared, unknowingly, down at him. It would not harm his cover; after all, the forged human components readily covered his real power sources underneath. The mechanics never bothered to look that deep.

"327 four barrel, 275 horses…" the surly human said, smiling appreciatively at the interior, at what he presumed were actual man-made components. "A little TLC and this thing is cherry." He did not know what the first part of that statement meant, but it sounded almost prideful. The Impala preened a little at the attention, despite his exhaustion.

"You know, man, you're right…" the dark haired man said, sounding reluctant.

The surly human nodded over at the van. "What are you buying that thing for?"

The dark haired human became almost apologetic. "Kind of promised someone I would…"

"Over a '67 Chevy?" the surly one asked. "Come on, this is a car of a lifetime."

_I am a highly trained scout under the Iaconian Special Forces led by Tactical Officer Prowl himself, thank you very much_, the Impala thought to himself, his attention drifting. His reserves were running low again. He should have gone into recharge then.

He kept watching the one in the blue suit, hovering at the edge of the scene. That human did not seem like the others. A quick scan of his body showed strange readings. Humans only had one cardiovascular muscle, known as a heart. This one had…two. He had not expected non-humans to be exposed on Earth. They were not.

This was an unexpected guest of Earth then, the Impala realized, quite like himself. Interesting.

"Trust me," the surly one said. "This baby's going to be badass when it's forty."

The Impala wanted to laugh at such a small estimate. Even with his current power failure and crippled systems, he would last much longer than forty planetary cycles around the sun.

Before the dark haired human could protest or agree, the blue-suited alien moved closer with odd familiarity.

"I think your friend is right," he said, grinning brightly. He clapped both the dark haired human and the surly human around their shoulders and grinned at the car, his eyes very strange. "It's a very good car!"

"Oh?" the dark haired man asked, pulling back.

The surly human moved back even further, his expression suddenly volatile with distrust. "Who're you?"

"Oh, no one important, just passing through," the blue-suited alien said, tucking his hands into the cloth that covered his body (pockets, he later learned). He seemed entirely unfazed by the other man's mistrust. "But yes, that…is one good car."

The dark haired man was more concerned about the car. "But my girlfriend…" he began. Girlfriend; a domestic partner, similar to wife. Implied sexual relationship, used mostly for procreation. The Impala winced. Human sparklings seemed loud and messy enough at a distance. He did not relish the idea of one being inside of him.

"This is an investment, right?" the blue-suited alien said, continuing to radiate a sense of optimism that seemed odd for a stranger to show over another's purchase. Even the other humans seemed baffled at his conduct. "Well, consider the future. A van'll help with kids, but what's going to give you the best sort of memories, eh?"

The dark haired human seemed curious as to why the new human-like alien would say what he had; the surly one was merely suspicious. The tension between him and the blue-suited alien was…interesting. The Impala wondered why it existed.

Ultimately, it came down to the dark haired human.

"…I'll take the Impala," he said, eyes shining with reflected light, as he gazed back at the Impala.

Take. Own. As if the car were merely a car. They did not know the truth, however.

"I'm John Winchester, by the way," the dark haired man said, smiling that odd smile the humans all had, showing off the bone protruding in their mouths, called teeth. "Thanks."

"…Dean Van Halen," the surly one said, hesitating in return. The Impala saw an odd emotion in his eyes. "Thank _you_."

For whatever the reason, the blue suited man grinned and looked up at the sky, amused. He turned and patted the Impala's hood faintly, with too much familiarity, before walking off. They never heard his designation. It didn't matter, really.

The merchant returned and was flustered over the switching the sales forms. The surly human stood around while the merchant left to retrieve the proper forms and continued to stare at John Winchester with an unreadable expression. Humans were far too versatile with their eyes to be entirely sure of their intentions.

"Listen," Dean Van Halen said, as the keys were switched over. "Watch out for yourself, okay?"

"Yeah," John Winchester told him, surprised. "Sure."

The other man left, his eyes hardened and the Impala briefly wondered who exactly he was. There was little time or energy to devote to pondering it for long. The sale went on and he was suddenly property. He sat back within his own frame to let the human drive him "home," which turned out to be a box-shaped building minutes away. His mate disapproved of the Impala, which was amusing to watch from a distance.

The dark haired human ended up being The Human for several solar rotations. He never seemed to mind the fuel consumption problems.

Somehow, the Human wound up being John Winchester by the time he and his mate Mary settled in their new home together as a familial unit.

Somehow, the human became John.

**0000**

**November 2, 1983**

The night of the fire changed everything. Human domiciles were cramped and ultimately death traps. He couldn't complain, since his home ended up being out the front of the house, but John took very good care of him. John was a good human—a good-sparked creature that cared deeply for his building family. It was alarming how fast humans reproduced and how fast those sparklings grew. The night John and Mary brought their first son Dean home was a frightening experience for everyone. The Impala rode on strong, however, figuring out from just how gentle the humans were with their offspring that human sparklings, called infants, were very fragile.

He watched Dean grow at a rapid pace, where he could stand on his own feet and run. He ran all over their front yard, so bold and energetic for such a small thing. The Impala watched and was pleased. He didn't know why. He certainly didn't know why he suddenly shared the pride and happiness Mary and John had when they learned they were to have another child. This was also a boy—whom they named Sam, after Mary's lost father.

For several weeks, it was just them. Just the Winchesters. Happy, safe. Growing.

That made the fire so much worse.

Dean ran outside that November night with his brother tucked in his arms. The Impala sat there in shock and horror as the fire erupted across the house, consuming the aged wood. For a long minute, he could not see John or Mary. The boys were alone, even when neighbors called the police and the fire trucks roared onto the scene. It had only occurred to the Impala then that he should have been the one to call first.

It was a relief to see John barrel out of the house, but the relief did not last. He collected his sons and held them in a fierce embrace.

He had left the house alone.

The Impala watched in silence as the Winchester home burned. The fires were eventually quenched, but they had taken all that was once valuable from them.

"It's okay," John whispered, clutching Dean and Sam close. He rocked them gently on the hood of the Impala. "It's okay. Daddy's got you."

The Impala only learned of what had exactly happened to the Winchester family days later. Mary was dead. Murdered. The local authorities did not want to hear anything about John's story, of finding his wife pinned to the ceiling and then bursting into flames. It made no sense to anyone, but John knew what he had seen.

Weeks later, after leaving the boys with a family friend, John drove the Impala to darker places, bars where he had been told by wary lurkers to seek out to find answers to the questions that gave him nightmares. There, they learned the truth. There, John Winchester found his destiny.

Monsters were real. A monster had killed his wife. A demon, by the sound of it, men told him gravely. Those men were hunters. They sought to destroy monsters that walked the Earth, like in legends the humans told themselves from ages past.

John Winchester threw himself and his sons into one mission and one mission alone: find the beast that had taken his wife, their mother, and kill it.

Hunters were not often born into their roles. They were baptized by fire, older hunters told him. The Impala believed it.

The fire had touched them all and it still lingered. It sank into John's soul and into the crevices of the Impala's metal hull.

Monsters. A human concept, a word that did not translate into Cybertronian. It was not a species, just a word for creatures that were frightening and inhuman.

Briefly, he realized he was a monster as well by that definition.

That did not stop John Winchester from holding his boys tightly in his arms inside the Impala. That night, the Winchesters entered a pact of vengeance inside the cradling form of another sort of monster, one who also swore to never leave after that night.

Whatever came next, he didn't have much choice but to follow. He would have followed anyway, he realized years later: the Impala was part of their family. He was part of their fate.

From then on, they hunted.

**0000**

Earth had changed overnight concerning his perceptions of it, but what took longer to accept as reality were the life changes of the humans in his care.

Children fighting monsters. Who would have even suggested it? Supported it? John Winchester did not have much of a choice but to bring his infant son and Dean along with him in the early years. Dean was too young for school, and even then, they put off the early educational years until Sam could handle daycare. John did not want to leave them anywhere alone, really. The Impala could not blame him one bit.

There were some helping hands. Distant family relatives sometimes took the boys in to put them through a few months of school. Dean did not like school; he had taken to the mission of hunting very seriously early on. He was a very intelligent boy. He knew what his father was doing was important work.

Sam grew slower than his brother had, or so it seemed. He asked more questions once he obtained the proper language protocols—or however it was that human younglings learned speech—and seemed a step away from the world of hunting that his brother and father were dedicated to. John and Dean threw themselves into the hunt while allowing Sam the privilege of lingering on the edge.

That wasn't to say it did not reach Sam, and subsequently Dean, even while their father was the one who went after monsters he caught wind of. John taught his sons how to load shotguns, pistols and how to clean them. He took pens out of Sam's hand to give him a knife instead. Sam was a quick learner, but less patient. Dean practiced throwing knives for hours, his expression more fitting a warrior than a seven year old.

Sometimes, it hit closer to home. The Impala was horrified when one day in 1990, they came back to a motel to find Sam near-death and Dean panicked. A shtriga had attacked Sam while Dean had been there alone. Dean had been scolded fiercely for letting his brother come to harm, though it seemed unfair. Dean was just a child, too.

But children baptized by fire did not have it easy. That, they all had to learn.

When they met fellow-hunter Bobby Singer, John suddenly had a helping hand in raising the boys. He left them with "Uncle Bobby" whenever a hunt required him to leave for long periods of time. The Impala did not like Bobby watching the children alone at first, but grew to trust him as John did. The boys adored the older hunter, who seemed to adore them just as much. Sometimes, it did pay to keep friends close. Any semblance of family was a welcome change for the children.

They came to know one particular place as home foremost in their youth: the car their father drove, the expansive back of the Impala. They did not know how carefully it drove them from town to town. They did not know how much care their home returned to them as the years drifted by.

Late at night, while John was pouring over maps and two bundles in the backseat slept on with shotguns under their pillows, the car hummed discreetly beneath them in quiet watch.

**0000**

**Nebraska, 1989**

It did not help when John hunted alone. The boys—they were too young. Often times, they were forced to stay with extended friends in various communities to catch up schooling, which was required by law. John left them reluctantly, no matter how sullen Sam would get at the absence of his father. The boy did not fully understand sometimes.

John traveled wide and the Impala proudly went with him. They hunted all sorts of creatures in their search for the Demon or any knowledge concerning it. They were only getting bits and pieces of the whole story. They rarely encountered demons, but they proved to be dead ends more often than not. John became well versed in how to kill them, regardless.

One night, after checking in with a new friend Bobby Singer, John caught wind of a shapeshifter targeting residents in a small town in northwest Nebraska. It was not a faulty lead; they found the 'shifter's lair easy enough. Years of hunts had given them both a strong lexicon on what lurked outside of normal human life. John picked up a trail and drove the Impala to one of the deserted service roads that served as the beast's path back to its nest.

Neither he nor the Impala suspected the shapeshifter to have been tracking them first. It attacked viciously, but John got one good shot with the shotgun. The creature howled and seemed to dive off into the bushes. The Impala almost made the hasty decision to activate its short-range radar, fuel be damned, to locate the monster.

It was too late then. John didn't see the shapeshifter reappear behind him while trying to reload. The creature was far too fast and snapped the shotgun right out of the hunter's hands. Even without bullets, the creature turned it into a deadly weapon. It swung the firearm directly at John's head and the human went flying with a yell.

He did not get back up, even when the shapeshifter began to stalk forward. The human remained motionless on the ground, knocked unconscious.

The Impala roared and surged forward. The shapeshifter turned and its inhuman eyes shone in the car's bright lights.

It was then that the Impala stood. For the first time in nearly two decades, he stood upon his own pedes, transforming swiftly. He rose above the stunned monster, which looked lost under his shadow. His systems protested fiercely, but there was no way the Autobot would remain silent. Not now.

"What are you?" the shapeshifter asked in horror, stumbling backwards on unsteady feet, in flesh that it had stolen from some other innocent.

It was that sort of fearful reaction that made him feel like a Decepticon, like Megatron himself.

It felt surprisingly pleasurable after all those decades.

"Iaconian," the Impala answered, reaching forward with a solid metal hand.

Monsters were monsters. They were not the sentient beings that the Autobots had sworn to protect. There was no guilt in his spark to tear the creature apart. It was easy, too.

If it was a violation of Autobot conduct, the Impala did not care. It had been worth it.

He did not dare remain bi-pedal for long. He transformed back into the Impala's more permanent shape and fought the pain to do so. It had been too long and he was still heavily damaged. The injuries sustained years ago did not atrophy like human injuries did, but any sane medic would have a processor crash over the untouched repairs he had left linger for so long. Now…

He could not attempt another transformation like that again, but even as he struggled to maintain his internal systems, he knew it was worth it. John was safe. The boys still had their father. The hunting would continue.

When John came to, he said nothing to anyone about the slain shapeshifter—because he did not presume there was anyone there to speak to. He kept a calm expression and merely went back to the Impala, unknowingly trusting yet another non-human to get him back to his sons.

The Impala purred as they drove, ignoring the lingering sense of pain.

_This was where he belonged._

**0000**

**August, 2001**

Sam left when he was eighteen. The Impala had seen it coming. They all had, really, but the other two men had ignored it, as if it would make the problem go away.

Part of the Impala was glad Sam left for Stanford. The tiny buddle that had grown into a tall, smiling man deserved to follow his dreams. He never liked the hunt. He wanted a regular life. Education promised that, so he left for college.

In doing so, Sam left his family behind, however. He left without warning them, though a warning seemed unnecessary. The air inside the Impala had grown colder and then full of sparks over the last year as the younger Winchester finished high school, his eyes full of want of change. His father did not approve. There were horrible fights.

And then, Sam left. Early in the morning, he left the motel they had been staying at just outside of the town where the youngest Winchester went to high school. He escaped by bus, skipping his own ceremonial graduation, having already been accepted by the school of his choice hundreds of miles away.

He escaped the life of the hunter, at long last. It seemed justifiable.

Even when Dean came out in a flurry of anger and drove the Impala off to uninhabited areas to curse and throw things at the air.

Even when John Winchester drank and broke glasses in the motel, silent and full of self-hatred.

The Impala pitied them in silence, as he always had.

When he left, Sam had trailed his hand over the hood of the Impala one last time. The Impala savored the memory and branded it into his spark, even while telling himself Sam would come back eventually.

It took four years, but he did.

**0000**

**October, 2005**

Dean had driven the Impala alone for the last two years. It had been surreal when the Winchesters split up for longer and longer time periods. John had become obsessed with the leads on the Demon. Dean seemed content hunting anything that he encountered on the road, his silent companion within the Impala watching and wishing the hunter did not feel so alone.

It was the disappearance of John that led Dean to break the self-imposed exile from his younger brother. Naturally, Dean did not share his plans to the car he drove, but the Impala knew the reunion was overdue when they crossed state lines into California. Via the Internet, the Impala checked up on Sam occasionally through social media sources. Dean found his brother through conventional means on his own, staking out the younger Winchester's apartment easily.

The Impala almost wanted to scold the youngest Winchester for being so lax about his security when Dean went up to collect his brother; surely, he hadn't lost his skills in four years. John would be very disappointed in the boy, otherwise. The solider in their car would also be rather disappointed.

Sam had not grown lax; he merely become dependent on denial. He still wanted nothing to do with the hunting tradition. He was almost finished with college. He was going to become a lawyer. A commendable trade, had it not interfered with other more pressing concerns.

It did not take much convincing to get Sam to help Dean find their father. The radio silence from the elder Winchester was rather alarming now. The Impala hoped Sam was right to believe it was merely John being, well, John.

Their attempt to find John led to several unfortunate events…including a ghost possessing his frame. The Impala had fought the intrusion with violent internal attacks, but the ghost was wise enough to escape the electrocuting self-defenses. To be so quickly possessed—the Impala had never expected to be used like that before. It was a liability, one that he was helpless to prevent, he learned.

Luckily, he was only used temporarily, though it had nearly killed Sam who had been inside him and the target of the vengeful spirit who drove the Impala to her one-time home. The Winchesters defeated the spirit with unconventional means—which included driving the Impala into the house.

He had not appreciated _that_ very much, but he grudgingly accepted it as part of his commitment to the hunt. They were all very lucky his exoskeleton would not be damaged by a mere human house.

The only good to come of the distracting hunt had been Dean's discovery of coordinates in his father's journal. Sam resisted the hunt for their father yet again, and much to Dean's displeasure, was driven home to his apartment.

The Impala had expected Dean to wait for a few minutes until he saw Sam get in safely and then try to figure out how they'd go on without him to find his father.

They heard screams from the apartment minutes later. They saw the flare of fire inside. Dean took off running at the sound of his brother screaming.

Sinking low upon himself, the Impala watched in horror as the same fate that took Mary from them happened again… to Sam's own partner, Jessica.

He had to watch Sam scream in his brother's arms, this time as a grown man, not an infant. It wasn't fair. It seemed impossibly unfair.

The Demon was still there, hunting them as they hunted it.

It did not take much convincing to get Sam to follow them after that, to find John, in order to find the Demon.

"We have work to do," Sam said, slamming the trunk closed. Both Winchesters were determined for different reasons, but they were in it together, once more.

When Dean turned the ignition and the Impala roared to life, the roar was just a little louder than usual.

Indeed, they did.

**0000**

**November-December, 2006**

The truck had nearly killed him.

In fact, in a way, it had.

The Yellow Eyed Demon had used John Winchester against his sons. It had seemed to come to its head, however, and the main concern was to get the injured humans to the nearest hospital. Only Sam was coherent enough to drive. The Impala roared as they tore away from the warehouse, Sam pressing the car to its limits.

Drip by drip, the Winchesters made their mark on him in an uncomfortably familiar manner that hadn't happened in years. Their blood sank into his interior compartment. The car shuddered at the realization their life essence was being lost. They had to get to medical attention, immediately.

And then, the eight-wheeler slammed broadside into them. A demon at the wheel, the crushing blow from the massive grill, the sound of the humans being thrown around like sacks of meat—

The Impala lost visuals and then was sent offline. He did not know how long he was out of commission. The next time he could register the outside world, it was days later. His body—the frame of the Impala—was in ruins.

Effectively, he was dead. Only his spark and memory core remained undamaged from the sneak attack. Agony became his awareness, his waking filled with crippling pain…

He willingly went into stasis. He could not bear consciousness, even though he knew in the back of his processors that he had to find the Winchesters. He had to be there for them.

Two weeks later, he onlined with a jolt. His frame did not move with his spark or fears; he was no longer connected to the internal systems that made up his transformed body. His body was no longer there; the only thing registering was dulled pain. He could not hear or see anything. His sensors had been destroyed or temporarily offlined. He could not tell.

Eventually, he regained audio. His receptors had been intricately placed within the dashboard of the car and along the interior of the hood. He lost more than half of that; only the dashboard audio remained intact, albeit severely damaged. He pushed any self-repair systems to manage it, but he realized that that his self-repair was down as well. He could only trust the exodermal metal to eventually stabilize itself.

In the meantime, he did not hear the familiar voices of the Winchesters for several days. There was noise and the sound of mechanical work. Someone was working on his frame, it seemed. They were silent. Eventually, he devised it was Dean.

Days later, when the human spoke with his brother, the Impala learned the truth.

John Winchester was dead.

He had sold his soul to save his oldest son. The Demon had won again. This time, it had devastating consequences.

For a long time, trapped inside his processors for the most part, the Impala wondered what they could possibly do next. Dean and Sam both wanted revenge. In time… so did he. Hot, black emotions ran through his spark.

It did not matter if it took them months or years. The Yellow Eyed Demon would pay for this. For _everything_ he had taken from the boys and their parents.

But on the cold nights alone, when Dean was not working on his undercarriage, the Impala was left to look at himself with a critical, dampening realization when he finally saw how crippled he actually was now.

He could not transform.

He could not drive on his own.

He could barely connect to any communications systems.

He was…just a car. A car with a spark, tucked away so pathetically, one stray accident could have ended his existence entirely.

His life now rested in the gentle, worn hands that fixed his exterior and unknowingly brushed over his spark chamber and memory core. Once the human finished the job, perhaps the remaining exodermal metal would begin a slow healing process to reconnect what remained on the transformer to the newer pieces of the man-made metal. The transformation cog was gone, however.

He was just a _car_ now.

In time, he regained visual systems. He saw the gaunt look on Dean's face. He saw the guilt on Sam's. He could do nothing more than watch and wait.

They would move on. They would continue the mission their father left them. The Impala would be there for them even if he could have chosen otherwise.

This was his fate now just as it was theirs, he decided then.

Dean attacked the car with a tire iron one night and then collapsed in distress. The Impala, even if he could have felt the blows, would have taken them gladly.

The hard blows changed to gentle hands ran over the steering wheel. He could not feel it anymore, but he knew the hands were gentle.

Dean fell asleep in the Impala that night he finished repairs. The car stayed alert at all hours, watching over him. It was the only thing he could do; it was his pleasure to offer it.

**0000**

**June, 2007**

When the Yellow Eyed Demon died, struck down by the Winchesters at long last, it felt like a weight had been lifted from them. John was at peace. He deserved peace. He truly did.

But in the place of that weight came down another. Dean Winchester now had a price on his head; he had sold his soul to save Sam. The Impala watched with great dread as the Winchester brothers—the last of their kind, truly—wrestled with unspoken emotion.

Dean had one year to live before he would be dragged down to Hell.

"We have work to do," Dean said, face guarded. Sam nodded and they shut the trunk of the Impala resolutely.

One year.

They could do this. They had done more impossible things before. He felt a slow crawl over his systems as his interior systems rebuilt themselves. The sense of his strength returning gave him optimism.

The Impala prayed, regardless.

**0000**

**June, 2008**

The day that Dean Winchester died and was sent to Hell was the day the Impala refused to work.

It sat out on the driveway where Sam had her towed, and during several fierce storms that followed that day, Sam could have sworn he heard a screeching sound coming from the car, as if it were grieving, too.

When it finally did decide to let the engine turn over, Sam could have sworn the insides were ten sizes too big for a single man driving.

**0000**

**October, 2008**

The angel had fixed and ruined everything. Everything.

Death was not forever. That was a fact Earth kept proving over and over for him. Dean Winchester came back into his life and into Sam's without any warning. It had been four months of Sam scouring the land for a way to resurrect his brother. The car he drove had done what he could to keep the last Winchester brother safe, even if there was a demon helping Sam now. The Impala didn't trust her. Not one bit. He watched her warily, but his suspicions were put on hold when their world was once again in upheaval.

For Dean to come back, it seemed a miracle. And too good to be true. While Sam celebrated the unexpected twist of events, the Impala's joy died harshly when they realized that the resurrection…had strings attached.

He had watched in helpless fear as the creature descended upon Bobby and Dean's location inside the barn. For the briefest moment, he had wanted to charge forward and strike the beast away.

But he didn't.

For the first time in a long, long time, the fear that coursed through his frame wasn't for someone else. It was for himself. This wasn't a vampire, or a ghoul, or a ghost. This thing—

This thing had greater power than anything the Autobot had ever felt before. Strong, visceral power. Stronger than any Prime, Matrix or no.

It only took this Castiel, servant of a human god, a minute to discover the Impala, his cold eyes piercing through the pathetic layers of human armor.

Angels. Heavenly creatures, that were not all that heavenly. Terrible things. Nothing like them existed on Cybertron, or so he had thought. Their story, of the Christian god and his ilk existing, made no sense.

Why was Earth the only place in the cosmos to hold such monsters? He didn't understand it. It was pointless to try to understand, even when the creatures' story began to matter here, on Earth.

Particularly concerning the two Winchester boys.

There was talk of prophecies and destiny. About an apocalypse. Somehow, two boys from Kansas were destined to start the end of times on Earth. It made no sense.

The angel who had saved Dean, who had nearly killed poor Pamela, and figured out what actually lay underneath the Impala's hood, lingered in their lives. The Impala could do nothing but watch with wariness. He didn't trust them. They weren't human or mech; they were monsters. John had taught him, as he had taught his sons, to never trust monsters.

Castiel appeared whenever he wasn't welcome, but generally it was when one of the brothers were around. That morning, he showed up when the humans were asleep inside a motel room. The Impala had to face the angel down, alone. This time, the angel didn't ignore him with only a passing glance.

This time, he spoke to the car.

"You are not supposed to be here," the angel announced.

The car watched the creature move closer. Castiel could see him, or at least, see his spark.

_What are you?_ the car asked within his own processors, knowing there was no point in pretending. If the creature could sense his spark, he probably could hear him.

"I am an angel of the Lord," Castiel replied, without even flinching. The car did, his tires crunching the rocks beneath them. "And you are not supposed to be here, Cybertronian."

Panic flooded his systems. _How do you know that word? How do you know me?_

"Your people were always doomed to destroy each other," the angel said, eyes narrowed. He sounded confused. "It's too soon for your kind to have found Earth."

Too soon? It wasn't their fault they found Earth. It wasn't their fault the Decepticons destroyed his entire unit, leaving him trapped there. But that was irrelevant. What was important now was what the angel and his brethren wanted. They weren't human and could not be trusted because of it.

_Why are you here? _the Impala asked, resisting a fight-or-flight urge. _What do you want with the Winchesters?_

Castiel tilted his head, like a bird. "They are to play their own roles in the destruction of their species," he said. "The End is coming."

Images of smoldering Praxus, burning Iacon, and the Senate murdered flooded his processors.

_You're lying!_ the only remaining Autobot cried.

Earth wasn't going to turn into Cybertron. It wasn't going to fall to death and destruction. It was too young. Too young.

"I do not lie," Castiel said, remorseless.

Helpless, the Impala shrank in on himself. _Earth…is just beginning. They're just beginning. The humans…_

They were so _young_.

"All worlds have their end," Castiel said, eyes oddly soft now. "Yours did."

Vector Sigma crumbled. The Well of Sparks closed forever. Their race, doomed to extinction. He barely remembered what the Prime had looked like. Prime was probably dead by now, and with him, the Matrix.

_I…_

Castiel moved closer and was soon right in front of the Impala. "Your own existence hangs on by a string," he said, eyes drifting straight toward the spark that lay in secret beneath the chassis of the vehicle. "You exist in pain."

That was true. Only by separating himself from the bulk of the car's components had saved his core and spark. Being rebuilt had only been part of the problem. He couldn't transform any more and he couldn't move except when at the mercy of human hands. It had been getting better, but at a snail's pace.

_But I'm still here_, the Impala whispered. _I…want to be here_.

His home may have been destroyed, but here, among the Winchesters, he had a purpose still. This was his home now. For nearly thirty years, he was _home_.

"Trapped like this?" Castiel asked, eyes intense.

It would have been a mercy to finally return to the Well of Sparks. This wasn't his natural form. He probably would never be able to die a good death trapped inside the Impala's shell.

But being there was a blessing, too.

…_I need to be here_, he said. _The boys need me._

The angel moved and rested a single hand on his hood.

"They don't know you're there," he said bluntly. The hand burned with unspoken threat of power.

Despite his spark flaring in fear, the Impala remained still.

_That doesn't matter_, he said.

Castiel frown deepened and didn't move. The car stared back and did his best to challenge the angel. He had no power or strength to defend himself, but he would not cave on this.

He was there to stay.

Out from the motel room, Dean and Sam came marching out. Castiel looked up and the car wilted beneath his touch.

Dean glared and motioned with his hand. "Hey, feather boy, hands off the car," he ordered.

Castiel said nothing. He backed away, and where his hand had been, the metal burned.

_I will be there for them until the end_, the car told him, steeling his spark. He would.

The angel's impassive stare met his spark. "So be it," he said.

**0000**

**April, 2010**

Stull had been the end. The end of everything.

He could do nothing when Sam left them or when Dean decided that he didn't care about the future. Castiel had given up and Bobby was helpless. They had nothing left.

But Dean proved that even though the world was ending, and there wasn't a thing he could do to stop it, he could still do one thing.

Only one.

"I'm not going to leave you, Sammy."

Dean smiled up at the Devil and spread his arms in front of the Impala. The shadow he cast, no matter how small, was as cold as ice on top of the impassive metal.

"I'm not going anywhere," Dean said.

There was nothing anyone could do to stop what happened next. Not the angel, who died. Not Bobby, who died. Not Dean, who was crushed into the hood of the Impala and never heard the breaking of the spark underneath.

The Impala, for a brief moment, tried to think of something to do. He could have driven forward. He could have—would have done something, anything, to save Dean, to save the last brother, the last Winchester he could still protect—

But any idea disintegrated in his processors when he realized how utterly helpless he was, no different than the human being beaten to death on top of him.

Because in that moment, he felt the hot eyes—full of fire—of the Devil land on him and he was paralyzed with fear. Lucifer stared at the motionless car after beginning his assault on Dean and then pausing when he finally noticed the vehicle.

He knew. _He knew._

Lucifer could see the spark that hid so fragile beneath the metal, that had been luckily untouched for the entirety of his time on Earth, and that spark trembled under the gaze.

The Devil saw him that day and smiled. His spark shrieked in fear.

He should have done something. He should have forced a transformation. He could have bought Dean time by destroying Sam's body. Even if it the effort overloaded his spark, he could have destroyed the devil's vessel.

But it was still Sam. Even if Sam's smile was no longer his, or if his eyes were full of the fires of Hell, it was still Sam. Samuel. Sammy.

Autobot Tracks did nothing that day. He could do nothing.

He watched Sam fall into Hell.

At that moment, everything fell apart. The gate shut. The Horsemen rings vanished. There was silence among the dead and the very few survivors.

After years of violence and action, it was all over in a matter of seconds. An indifferent flash. A broken smile.

It was all over.

Tracks couldn't feel anything. He fell in upon himself and couldn't stop falling, deeper and deeper.

The angel came back as a miracle. So did Bobby. Dean remained.

And Sam was gone.

_Gone_.

He had seen the fall of an empire and the diaspora of his entire race. He had fought battles with tyrants and behemoths. He had dodged grenades, Shockwave's drones, and burning shrapnel on lonesome worlds. He had survived crashing to Earth as flaming, molten steel.

But this… how could he ever recover from _this_?

Dean drove away. He drove far away from Stull. Tracks couldn't keep up with where they were headed. It started to rain.

The angel told Dean that this was what Dean had wanted. Tracks almost screamed.

How could this be what any of them _wanted_?

He wanted Sam back. He wanted John back. He wanted all the years back where it was just them, just the three of them, driving together, being a family. He didn't care if they didn't know he was a part of it, because he was all the same. He had loved them, cherished them, protected them when he could.

But it hadn't been enough.

The angel looked at the dashboard, at Tracks, and said nothing. His eyes spoke volumes.

Tracks had failed them all in the end. Nothing he could ever do again would change it now.

Castiel left and his absence created a void inside Tracks. There was only one human left now. Just one.

Only one.

Dean rested his forehead against the steering wheel as they sat on the side of the road.

Tracks keened, the sound lost to the sound of rain falling and the human's sobs.

He wanted to reach out to the last brother. He wanted to tell him the truth—that he wasn't alone—but—

Dean didn't need that. Not from Tracks. Because that wasn't what Tracks was. Not even then, after all those years, all of the road traveled. Tracks was not Tracks.

He was home. And he would be for as long as Dean needed him to be.

It was all he could be.

.

* * *

**End "Through the Quiet."**

* * *

.

Next, for real this time, Crowley makes some tough choices.

**A/Ns**:  
-Concerning the rest of the Season 4, Episode 3 of _Supernatural_, where Yellow Eyes attacks John and Mary's family, I have decided that final confrontation did not take place in the Impala, because I said so. Whoops.  
-Considering that Bayverse (2007 movies) lacks a lot of the original cast of the _Transformers_ franchise, I've blended in G1 (the cartoon) and various other spin-offs together into this to create a more solid background for the _Transformers_ crossover here. Tracks originally came from the G1 cartoon series in the 1980s. Obviously, he will look utterly different here style-wise. Use your imagination.  
-Exodermal metal – In my headcanon, the "skin" of the transformers is effectively living metal that can absorb foreign metal to reform itself, quite like some kind of living bandage.

For those who are unused to _Transformers_ fan fiction/lore, here is a small glossary of terms and important names:

-**Primus** – their benevolent deity  
-**The Pit** – the place where their evil deity, Unicron, exists. Sort of like Hell, but "bad mechs" are not doomed to go there or anything. More like…a cage.  
-**Well of Sparks** – where all mechs go when they die. Think of _samsara_ in Buddhism.  
-**Spark** – soul/essence  
-**Pedes** - feet  
-**Energon** – the transformers' fuel source; a glowing blue substance that is ingested. They also bleed it, since it moves through their body via tubes.  
-**Shockwave** – a Decepticon general and scientist, known for having a single optic for a face  
-**Megatron** – the leader of the Decepticons; typically the main villain of the _Transformers_ canon  
-**(Optimus) Prime** – leader of the Autobots, who are the good guys  
-**Vector Sigma **– a non-sentient mech on Cybertron, their home world, who recycles sparks from the Well of Sparks to create new life  
-**Matrix (of Leadership)** – a key to access the Well of Sparks; basically, this is what Primes have to validate their Prime status as leaders of their people.  
-**Iaconian** – an ethnic branch of transformers from the capitol city-state, Iacon. Also a language.  
-**Praxus** – another city-state; the natives are known as Praxians. Their distinguishing features compared to other transformers are "door-wings," which are exactly what it sounds like. Praxian is also a language.


	7. Choices

_**Small World  
**_"**Choices"  
**By Nan00k

After failing at ending the world, Crowley made a series of choices to save his own life… and the lives of the very few people that ever mattered. (Part of the Small World AU series. SuperWhoLock plus Good Omens.)

In which Crowley has feelings. Urgh. Also, I've adjusted some parts of the _Doctor Who_ timeline for the following installment. Whovians, you will know it when you see it. As always, just accept what you read at face value.

.

* * *

**Warnings**: MASSIVE crossover, mixing of canons, alternative universe setting, dark themes, mention of homophobia  
**Disclaimers**: _Supernatural_ © Kripke/CW. _Good Omens_ © Pratchet and Gaiman. _Doctor Who_ © BBC. _Sherlock_ © Moffat/Gatiss.

* * *

.

**Mayfair, London  
1990**

Demons did not care about other people.

That was harder for Crowley to believe after recent events.

Six months after the failed Apocalypse, he could not sleep.

He _was_ a demon. He did not have to sleep. In fact, it was optional both ways, so he did it when he could. Aziraphale never understood or shared his enthusiasm for sleep, but he was an angel so his idea of a good time was never quite on par with Crowley's.

He did enjoy it. Sleeping was just another interesting quirk mortals had, but for him, it was sort of like his hobby of growing plant. It was just something to do every day. It had become routine. Crowley felt like something was amiss whenever he skipped a day or two of an eight-hour sleep.

But six months after nearly battling the Devil and the forces of destiny to save Earth, Crowley could not sleep. He could not, even if he wanted, and he did try to.

He could not sleep because he knew that as each new hour passed in the new post-not-apocalyptic world, another clock was running out. His own clock.

Hell would not forgive nor forget his betrayal. He had caused a seven thousand year old plan to spiral into chaos and ultimate failure. He had helped the would-be anti-Christ give up on fate and make their own future.

He tried to be optimistic. Aziraphale was forcing it himself, being all smiles and acting like nothing at all had happened in the last ten years that was different than the thousands of years they had shared together on Earth. They went out to dinner and went back to their respective dwellings. Crowley watered his plants and Aziraphale never sold a single book in his shop. The Bentley continued to play Queen and the world did not cease to exist.

But one afternoon, six months later, Crowley was forced to abandon any feeble sense that things would be all right after all. He had not been able to sleep because in the back of his mind, he knew…

He knew they were coming for him.

Six months and a day after the failed-apocalypse, Crowley had drifted around his flat as he waited to head out for lunch with Aziraphale. It was the same old thing: the Ritz, split bill, meaningful conversations about nothing important. He had expected it, but somehow, he almost knew deep in his bones that it wasn't going to wind up that way that afternoon.

He had gone into his office and thought about rearranging the layout of the room, just to pass the time. He picked up the sleek desk clock and peered at the bright digits.

"Hello, Crowley."

He stopped and let the clock slide back down onto the desk's top with a quiet thud.

If he had a beating heart, it would have stopped and he would have fallen over dead right there. He wished he could have done just that.

Slowly, Crowley raised his head and turned. He did not dare keep his line of sight away from his guest, a creature he had not realized was there until it was too late to run or plan.

In the middle of his office stood a tiny girl of eight or so, with golden curls and delicate pink cheeks. Her skin was so white, it could have been carved marble. The dress was a mess of pink frills.

Crowley swallowed hard.

"Hello, Lilith," he said, voice rasping.

So, this was how it was going to end.

He hoped Aziraphale wouldn't mind him missing lunch.

Lilith beamed and her stolen blue eyes twinkled in the light. She had her hands tucked behind her back and she bounced on her heels. Her shoes were white with buckles.

"It's been too long," she said, pink lips pulling back to reveal an all-white smile. "Last time I saw you, well…"

"It's been an age or two," Crowley said. He glanced at the door and tried to hide it behind his glasses. "Young as ever, you are."

Lilith puffed up at the compliment. "Thank you. I love pubescents. They have the nicest skin," she said, running one hand over another.

There would be no running. He could not trick her like he had tricked the Duke. He had no holy water, and even if he did, using it against her would be tantamount to suicide.

This was the end of the road, he realized.

He did his best not to show he had had that realization.

"What brings you to this neck of the woods?" Crowley asked stiffly. He turned and adjusted the clock he had knocked over. "I would have made tea or gotten a plate for you—"

The thud behind him matched the sharp terror that flooded his body. He turned anyway. He came face to face with soulless white eyes. Lilith smiled, her teeth flawless, balanced on the edge of the desk as if she had been there all along.

"Game's over, Crawley," she said, grinning.

"I figured," he said, his skin clammy and cold.

Lilith did not just tear into him. She could have destroyed the entire flat with just a small gesture. She was the First demon. She would always be the most powerful. She could have even killed Aziraphale if she tried. On the desk, Lilith did nothing but grin.

"They always said you were a coward," she said, giggling. "If you were a human, you'd probably be on the ground cowering."

"When faced with certain annihilation, I suppose anyone would," he replied. He reached up and took his sunglasses off in some weak show of courage.

This was it. It was over. Seven thousand years of running and pretending like it would never be over came crashing down harder than it had six months ago when the world almost ended. Then, he hadn't been face to face with his death. Then, he had some false sense of hope to cling to.

_This_ was personal and he could not deny the fact that that made it infinitely worse. The fear. The sense of helplessness.

Briefly, illogically, he wondered if Aziraphale would find out Crowley was dead before he too was hunted down. It probably didn't matter, either way. If Hell had come for him, Heaven would not be far behind Aziraphale.

_It's been a pleasure, mate_, Crowley thought.

Lilith was watching him and never stopped smiling. She seemed terribly amused. This had been the closest he had ever been to her. It was not pleasant, even if she wasn't there to—

"You think I'm here to kill you," Lilith said, her smile changing into innocent surprise.

Crowley stopped. "Uh." He blinked. "Yes."

Lilith blinked back with full eyelashes before she grinned again. "I like you."

With that, she hopped off the table and went over to his bookshelf. Crowley watched her peer around at the books.

"Thanks. I suppose," he said, feeling horribly exposed.

What was this? Was this actually a prelude to his punishment or was this some kind of trap that posed an even greater threat? His involvement in Adam Young's disappointing conclusion in Tadfield had been very clearly noted by both Heaven and Hell.

_What is going on?_ Crowley thought shrilly as he watched the First demon browse his collection.

"Why, if I may ask, are you here, then?" he asked before could think twice.

Lilith didn't look at him. "To give you a job."

Crowley felt the world tilt out of alignment.

"Oh," he said dumbly.

Lilith gave him a simpering look. "Because, despite that last hiccup six months ago, you have been rather good at doing our Father's work on Earth. Seven thousand years…quite the resume."

"…forgive me," he said. He braced himself. "But I don't believe that."

"Oh, but it has been seven thousand years," Lilith insisted.

"Not that," he said, clenching his hands around the edge of the desk so tightly, the wood creaked. "You cannot…"

There was no way he was getting a clean slate after Adam Young. He had botched the bloody biblical apocalypse. He had teamed up with an angel and had attempted to take a tire iron to the Devil's face. He was not just getting away from this with a bloody promotion.

He silence was noted.

"Ah, let me guess… you're trying to figure out why your little _mistake_, your little glitch, six months ago somehow evens out under seven thousand years of you fucking an angel and drinking tea," Lilith said, shrugging. "Yes, that's a good question, isn't it?"

Crowley waited for it—the inevitable explosion of violence. He expected pain, retribution, punishment. It never came.

"But relax, Crawley, you're not useless, so I'm not going to kill you," Lilith said after a beat of tense silence. Words like that from anyone else would have been reassuring. Now, it was more of a threat.

"I'm…relieved, ma'am. To hear that," he said, not believing it still. This was… too good to be true. There had to be a trick there, but he couldn't see it yet.

"I bet you are," she said, shoulders shaking with quiet laughter. Her eyes, despite being pure white, had malice in them.

Crowley leaned back against the desk and tried to ignore the fact he needed to brace himself in order to keep standing. "What…do I have to do?"

It could have been anything, but he could not refuse it now. Maybe it was another baby, but that wasn't right—they wouldn't put him anywhere near another apocalypse plan with his notoriety now.

"You're going to go to America and take over a position in the Crossroads there," she said, speaking swiftly compared to before. "We've lost quite a few of our agents due to hunters getting cocky." She flashed him a grin. "We need you to start building our reserves up."

"Why?" Crowley asked. He winced and continued, "I mean…"

"Because we seem to have spent the last seven thousand years worth of dirty human souls on the last apocalypse, which, oh, failed spectacularly due to your deliberate intervention," Lilith drawled. She tugged a book loose from the shelf and let it fall to the clean floor with a sharp slap. "So, Crawley, you're going to pay Hell back for each one of those souls you made us lose."

"I…see," he said, voice weak to his own ears.

He wasn't part of the Crossroads system. Buying souls from unwitting or desperate humans had never struck him as good business. He liked to cause problems or drive humans to commit travesties against each other. Being directly involved like that?

That… did not seem right.

Aziraphale wouldn't like it, that much Crowley knew for sure.

"I'm…not accustomed to sales, unfortunately," he said, knowing it was a lame answer. He didn't want this. "I've spent most of my career thwarting or inspiring… not… buying."

"Then it's a very good thing you're Hell's top bullshitter, isn't it?" Lilith replied, sweetness becoming bitter.

"I would hate to ruin your budding market plans overseas—," he tried to say.

All at once, the room darkened. Crowley winced as Lilith moved closer.

"If you don't get back in the game, Crowley," she said quietly, leaning in closer. Even while shorter, she loomed. "I will kill you myself. And don't think we've forgotten your friend."

"Friend?" Crowley repeated, but he already knew what she was talking about. He didn't want to think about it, but it was there, blatantly, without mercy—

"Oh, I know about the angel," she said. Lilith laughed, her laughter like bells. "Funny. I never thought you would have the balls to walk up to Lucifer with a tire iron in one hand and an angel on the other side."

Aziraphale.

Crowley's eyes drifted to the sharp edges of the bookshelf and oak door. He thought about a lot of things. Most of it was unimportant. Like ducks and lunch. Books. Getting drunk. A definitive absence of loneliness.

There was a lot to think about when one had seven thousand years of memories to reflect upon.

Demons did not care about other people.

In the end, he had very little choice. He supposed that was how it was always supposed to be.

"Do you have an answer for me?"' Lilith asked sweetly when his eyes fell back upon her.

He did in fact have an answer he wanted to give, but going with his first option would certainly wind up with him being obliterated.

He went with the second option.

"I'll do it," he said.

Lilith's smile was like a razor. "Good," she said.

Crowley watched the little terror curtsy politely and leave. She left him standing there in his office alone with everything he had just been given.

He stood there for another half hour with those lonely thoughts.

He needed a plan B.

He didn't have one.

Aziraphale called him three times and he simply deleted the messages. Seven hours after Lilith's visit, Crowley was already in the United States.

He would not be coming back.

**0000**

**Florida, United States of America  
1991**

Demons did not care about other people.

Crowley, he had learned about himself in the last few years, was not a very good demon.

He was, however, very good at getting souls. Very good.

He had always known he was a good manipulator. Everyone knew that about him. He _was_ the Serpent in the Garden, after all. Or at least he had been.

Selling contracts at crossroads was immensely different than thwarting good intentions or inspiring evil paths in mankind's evolution. As a lower-rung Crossroads demon, Crowley had to answer the unearthly call of the specific region he was stationed at (some awful place in the southern area of the country; the blessed temperatures were terrible) whenever a human did the inane ritual that set off a ripple affect in Hell's network. The bone of a cat, the dirt from a graveyard and a photo of the client—and that's all it took to get him to show up anymore.

It was degrading, but Crowley did not complain once. He was alive and everything seemed to be at a stand-still when it came to his probation. He heard nothing about what was going on in England. Aziraphale must have looked everywhere for him. The angel could have hunted him down eventually, but Crowley was more relieved than disappointed when a year passed and the angel didn't show.

Against all rational sensibility, Crowley was grateful the angel didn't just barrel into his probation and get them both killed. It was lonely, but Crowley couldn't afford to think like that, even after seven thousand years of never being alone before.

Day after day, he bought souls. He granted inane wishes—miracles of Hell—to give the poor money, the sick longevity and the rich the chance to get richer. It always came down to money or loved ones, since, well, only the truly desperate would ever research the idea of a Crossroads deal in the first place.

Crowley felt sick satisfaction knowing he was good and knowing Hell noticed he was good at being a salesman. It was so easy to convince the nervous humans who called him out that ten years was a long time and whatever it was they desired was truly worth an eternity in Hell. Time spent buying souls gave Crowley new insight into human nature: they were all morons. At least things were looking up for _him_.

One uncomfortable summer day, he found himself drawn to a housing development outside of Jacksonville. Crowley pulled his magic—all human, all retail—and got a sweaty real estate agent to sell his soul in order to become a real estate mogul in the area for the next decade. He'd make millions.

He'd also burn in Hell for all eternity. At least Crowley could make it sound like a fair trade.

The human scampered off to his car and Crowley watched dully as the sun burned overhead.

"Stupid," he murmured to himself. He took out a cigarette, stared at it, and held it to his lips as the end spontaneously lit. He didn't know if he liked it or not yet.

He didn't feel a pang of another client anywhere near. He still wasn't sleeping, since people often called upon the crossroads at night. They didn't have to summon a demon at midnight, but most humans went for theatrics.

Sighing, Crowley adjusted his collar—he refused to acknowledge the heat and always wore his dark jacket—and sauntered down the empty streets. It was shocking how empty the area was. He was used to taller buildings and people everywhere. America could be overcrowded in the cities, but it was always a surprise to see how big and flat it actually was.

He was halfway down the block when he heard someone say something; it wasn't his last client.

"Hey."

He kept walking, ignoring the distant call.

"Hey!"

Crowley only then realized there was someone running after him. It wasn't the real estate agent.

Turning around, he saw a dark haired white male, middle aged and wearing a worn winter coat, running down the street. The human slowed and was gawking at Crowley. His eyes were lined with lack of sleep and his face was unshaven.

"You a demon, aren't you?" the human asked without pause.

Crowley arched an eyebrow. He then turned around and started to walk again. He had already gotten one soul. He was good, but he didn't exactly like doing it. He hoped he could learn to like it eventually, since it didn't seem like he'd be changing up anytime soon.

"Wait!" the human called out, sounding frantic.

"And here I thought this area was full of squatters and illegals," Crowley drawled. He brought the cigarette up to his lips and almost took another drag.

"You're Crowley, aren't you?"

He stopped dead.

It was just a human. There was no one else in that housing development; the client had already driven off. Crowley did not think it was a trap. He did, however, turn and fix the breathless human with a cold glare.

"Excuse me?" he asked, dropping the cigarette.

To know his name—to know any demon's name—was a very odd thing for a human. A very… troubling thing.

"I need your help," the human said, ignoring the danger signs or merely not seeing them. He just stood there with splayed arms, completely submissive.

Crowley moved closer, eyes narrowed. "Who are you?"

The human seemed to struggle for a moment. "The Doctor said you can do magic," he said after a beat. "I know it was years ago, but he told me you were his friend and that you were a demon and you could grant miracles."

The Doctor?

What doctor—?

Crowley's jaw dropped faintly.

Oh, fuck no. A flash of memories—nearly two years ago, in London, a strange alien in a transdimensional spacecraft hidden as a phone box. That damned alien told people about him? By _name_?

"Bloody hell, I'm not a _circus performer_," Crowley spat, rounding on the human. Yes, this one was definitely a human. "Who are you?"

"Canton Everett Delaware, the third," the man said in one big breath. "Please."

"Do you have any bloody idea—you know what?" Crowley asked, his patience evaporated. "Where is he?"

"Who?" this Canton asked, startled.

"The Doctor!" Crowley spat. "I have had it up to here with his jumping around into Earth business." He needed to make it clear that there could be _no more talking about the failed-apocalypse_—ever. The less they talked about, the sooner his transgressions would become faded memories and then—then it would be _safe_—

"He's not here," Canton said, looking a bit taken aback. "I haven't seen him in nearly twenty-five years."

Crowley hissed. "Then, what—?"

"I don't know where he is, so I can't ask him to help me. I don't have time," Canton said quickly. He exhaled sharply and ran a hand over his tired face. "But he said you were magical. Years ago, when we met, he told me about how he helped you save the world or something. And that magic exists. I…I need magic right now. Even the Doctor can't help me now."

Crowley observed him closely, his mind racing. Why would the Doctor ever tell a human about the supernatural realm of earth and recommend…him? How did the Doctor know he had become a Crossroads demon anyway? Time traveling was probably the explanation, but…it was suspicious.

And mildly alarming the more Crowley thought about it. The Doctor was telling random people about him, by name, as if he was a human sympathizing wizard or something. This was not good. Not good at all for his laying-low-like-a-good-demon plan.

"…You seem like a desperate man," he said at length, unable not to sound gruff.

Canton smiled; it was a sick expression. "You have no idea," he said.

"Well, then, Mr. Delaware…." Crowley moved closer and squinted at the human, who seemed unaffected by his presence. A brave, desperate man then. "The only reason I am going to tell you this is because you apparently know the Doctor. And if I don't tell you this, and he finds out, it'll probably be more trouble than it's worth."

"Tell me what?" Canton asked, finally looking a little wary.

Crowley pushed his sunglasses up further. "That desperate men asking me for a deal leads those desperate men straight into Hell," he said simply. "I am a demon. A Crossroads demon now, but even if I wasn't, making deals makes me a very good demon." He gestured at the human while forcing a brief smile. "And you? A very sad, unfortunate man."

"But if I made a deal, you would help me?" Canton asked, insistently.

"I don't want to help you," Crowley said, irritable. If he ever found that blasted alien, he'd rip his name from his mind. "Like I said. More trouble than it's worth." Crowley turned about-face and walked decidedly down the sidewalk. "Good day, Mr. Delaware."

He had intended to leave the area and take the rest of the day to try to get the sickly feeling out of his skin, but unfortunately, his previous company was not leaving quietly.

"WAIT!" the human yelled. There was a clattering sound of the human kicking aside construction equipment as he ran after the demon.

Crowley ignored how the human dogged him and seemed completely ignorant to the concept that chasing a demon who had dismissed him was a terrible idea. Canton kept up, irritatingly well.

"It's my fiancé," the human said, voice shaking mostly from having to walk that fast.

"Get a new one," Crowley growled. Humans and their stupid sentimentalities. Didn't they realize by now that they were all a dime-a-dozen?

Canton nearly stumbled again on the sidewalk. "I'd rather not."

"A good looking mate like you could find a gal in no time, I'm sure."

"He's one of a kind."

Okay, that made Crowley pause for a second.

"Oh. Well, that's too bad," he said, continuing at his quick pace. The human unfortunately did not fall behind.

"The Doctor said your kind always makes deals," Canton said, as if he hadn't been told to get lost already. "Don't you want my soul?"

At that, Crowley whirled around and the human nearly fell into him. Crowley loomed as best he could, and even at his worst attempt, he was intimidating.

"Is your soul really worth a life of one person?" he demanded, granting Canton no moment to respond with inane, immediate answers. "Because this isn't just you trading places here. This is you _rotting away _in Hell for all _eternity_ just so your lover can live another forty years."

Why did humans do this? Why did they never consider the consequences? Why… why did allowing them to jump at the first sign of a miracle make Crowley feel like there was a sickness crawling through his mortal skin that he could never purge?

Canton looked lost under everything he had said. "I…" the human began, voice catching.

Crowley waited and hoped that for once, a human would be rational.

"Yes," Canton said after that long handful of seconds, sounding resolute.

"You are an idiot," Crowley hissed, eyes narrowed. He materialized another cigarette and let it burn.

"No, not really. Just a fool in love, most likely," the human replied, grinning weakly. "But you'll take it? The deal?"

Crowley considered it for a moment.

"No," he said, whirling around and stalking off down the street.

He was not going to be nice and take this man's soul for something so petty. Maybe that was the more evil, demonic thing to do, he thought sarcastically. Ignore the soul because it was what the man wanted so dearly. How ironic. He wondered if he'd earn a commendation for that.

"I am begging you," Canton called. Crowley spared him a glance and stopped when he saw the human now had a gun out, pointed at Crowley.

It was almost hilarious.

"With a gun," Crowley said, arching an eyebrow.

Canton smiled. The shaky grip on his weapon betrayed his stress. "I can't let him die because I didn't try harder," he said. That was his only excuse.

"Trading your soul isn't trying harder, human," Crowley said. "It's just pointless."

"I am _begging_," Canton repeated, sounding like a man who never did such things. His eyes were shining brightly. "Please."

Why? Why did humans do this? This—this saving each other thing? It made no rational sense. Humans were designed to place self-preservation above all else, but yet it always seemed to come back down to this.

All at once, Crowley understood why he refused Canton. It wasn't because he cared if one human died or not, but rather, it was easy. It was too easy for the humans. They lost their souls and went to Hell for all eternity, but they still…

They could still _fix_ things.

And Crowley couldn't fix one blessed thing in his life. Not his past mistakes, not his current messes and he certainly couldn't keep the very few lives that had ever managed to get tangled up into his from interfering with his life now. He didn't have something so easy as a Crossroads deal to fix…

Unless…

Crowley found himself staring out at the empty road and slowly tilted his head in realization.

All at once, the Serpent had a plan.

It was not a sane or a safe one. But it was a plan. One that could keep him alive. One that…could keep everyone alive. Everyone who had made themselves a blatant target of revenge in the wake of Adam Young's failure. Everyone who was now a liability to him, whether he wanted it or not.

Slowly, Crowley turned and looked back at the desperate human.

"I don't want your soul," Crowley told him, suddenly feel like he was on fire.

"Please—," Canton said, eyes wide in alarm at what he thought was rejection.

"I'll take something else though," Crowley said. He was glad he did not have a heart that would have been racing.

Aziraphale would not approve of this one bit.

"Anything," the human told him, lowering the gun.

"I need your body."

Canton froze. "My… body?"

"I need a new face," Crowley explained carefully. "A new reputation and a new face. We only got one of our own topside and this one…needs to disappear for a bit."

He would hide it somewhere safe. That way, if he had to, he could have a reliable "back-up" if his new job failed or he lost favor. He had to make sure he cut no corners with this. It had to be done perfectly, his ascension to the top of good graces here. He could do it alone, even if the benefits reached out to others across the ocean.

This…could work.

He couldn't get them out of the limelight, but he could bide them time. He could win every good grace he could from his people and use it to kill the rumors and the bad press. He had to become the best demon that ever walked the Earth, one who groveled at Hell's feet. He could force the failure from their minds if he could just do enough evil, enough good for Hell's new agenda, that all the lives who had interfered before would simply be irrelevant. He had to make their failure _irrelevant_.

And this was the best way to start, he realized, by starting over. Literally.

If it had been anyone else there—Aziraphale, Sherlock, Adam—who had to make this choice to save their lives, Crowley knew they wouldn't be able to do it. It had to be him, Crowley realized.

He had to be the one to make the tough choices.

"I…" Canton began, several things flashing over his face. Very little fear, though.

"You won't lose your soul, if that helps," Crowley said, tucking his hands into his pockets. He felt like this was a hallucination or a dream. Except, demons didn't dream. "You get to hitch a ride with me in the meantime, and well, once things calm down for my people, I'll let you get on your own merry way."

"Can't you just _take_ a body?" Canton asked, brow furrowed, trying to figure out things he didn't understand. Apparently the Doctor had explained some things to him. Oh, he was going to pay for this.

Crowley snorted. "Fallen angel, unfortunately. Rules are different for us who once had wings," he said. He loomed closer, letting his golden serpentine eyes be seen clearly beyond the rim of his glasses. "I need your permissssion."

"Then have it," Canton said, eyes bright. "Save David. I don't care."

Humans were so stupid.

Crowley took a steadying breath.

"If the Doctor asks, be sure to remind him of that and that this wasn't just my idea," he said after a long moment of silence. Part of him had been hoping the human would have changed his mind in that time.

"Thank—," Canton began, relief flooding his expression. He was glad for this, for this deal, for Crowley's agreement.

"Don't thank me yet," Crowley warned him. That was all he could give the human now.

He left his body—his body, the body given to him by Hell as its agent on Earth—and took the human in front of him whole. He had never possessed a human before. He had never had to.

Everything that he was—not a soul, because demons, especially fallen angels, did not have souls—slammed into the new body. Whatever Canton was, whatever made up a human's soul, was no match for Crowley's essence. It swamped and drowned the human spark and shoved it aside. Crowley briefly hoped he knew what he was doing. It seemed horrendously easy to snuff that human spark out.

But perhaps it was sturdier than it looked at first. Crowley was amazed by the sheer boldness of Canton's soul. It was smaller and it was weaker, but it was solid. It did not fight him invading its domain, but the moment Crowley touched that glowing light, he understood everything.

He saw how Canton and the Doctor had met, two decades ago. It wasn't the Doctor Crowley had known—this one with a different face, with a brown suit and two companions he didn't recognize. An older Doctor perhaps, one from a very different world and time, and not the same one who had just left London in 1990. They had saved the world from an invading alien race that no one seemed to remember now. Canton was a brave man. A brilliant FBI agent and a clever actor, who had done everything he could to save his world. He had trusted the Doctor.

Trusted him enough to seek out a monster to save the life of someone he loved. He had asked the Doctor all about the different things that existed. This new Doctor had told Canton in 1969 about the monsters out there in the dark. Canton had filed it away in his mind, an ace to hold onto should he ever run into those monsters.

But desperation made men illogical. It made them seek out monsters instead of merely preparing to fight them. Canton had remembered the Doctor's "old friend Crowley" and sought out what he prayed and hoped was another ally from beyond. His skills as a law enforcer served him well there. It was almost admirable.

Hot memories that flashed white with angry and grief caught his eye. He followed them down into more recent events. Crowley saw this David, but Canton did not remember his fiancé's better days now.

He had loved him for twenty-seven years. They were both at the middle part of human lifespans, but it was already too late for David, who lay crippled in a hospital bed in D.C. from an attack by homophobic punks who had nothing better to do that hunt down couples in parks late at night. Since Canton's expulsion from the FBI, they had had to work where they could and they had only meant to spend more time together when there was a spare moment. And then it was all taken away _again_—

The raw sense of grief, hate, and desperation settled deep within him, Crowley pushed it aside, all onto Canton's little side of the body, and then sealed it off. All went quiet, as if he had shut off a running faucet.

The body was his. Crowley lifted his hands and inspected the digits. He looked down at his old one—which lay crumpled like a worn out suit on the ground—and thought it strange to look from the outside. He reached out and plucked up the cigarette from his motionless hand. It was still burning.

Slowly, Crowley remembered to breathe and it was only then that his borrowed heart beat a bit faster. It was overworked from stress as it was. Heartache could be so literal, Crowley learned.

"Humans always do things for love," he said to himself. He shook his head. "So stupid."

He was doing this so he wouldn't feel guilt. He disregarded the oddness of the fact he _would_ feel guilty if any of his allies died because of his overseers, however. That line of questioning his motives was too much to bear at that point in time.

Somewhere, across the ocean, two hunters, a demon, a witch, her husband, and an angel could sleep better at night, even if they didn't know it yet.

Crowley took another long drag of his cigarette before throwing it out into the wind.

He had a body to fix in a hospital up north and then a corporate ladder to climb.

He also had several more bodies to hunt down in a park.

**0000**

**Florida  
1992**

Two years after Adam Young failed and the world was saved, Crowley finally answered his phone. It was sort of a surprise that Aziraphale had found his number, but honestly, it was more of a surprise the angel hadn't just shown up to find him. Some outsiders judged Aziraphale for being too naïve about things; Crowley knew the truth and that was that Aziraphale was just as much of a paranoid bastard as Crowley was.

That's why he called and didn't just fly over, at any rate.

"Hello, angel," Crowley said, stopping in the small town he had come to. He had gotten another three souls that weekend. It had been a good haul. He had just gotten a commendation last week for his surpluses.

Aziraphale made a sharp sound. "_Where are you?_"

"America," Crowley said.

"_America_?" It wasn't really a question. He had already known.

Crowley cleared his throat. "Florida, specifically."

At least Aziraphale sounded all right. Maybe this was working. Maybe Crowley could fix this. He would have expected a mocking report from his bosses if they were about to hunt down one of his old allies. Instead, he had received silence. Clearly, it was working.

"…_Why_?"

"Ngk."

Aziraphale made a tsking sound. "_Oh, dear_," he said. "_Was it…you ran into one of them, didn't you? Lilith? Or Alastair?_"

"Maybe," Crowley said, glancing around carefully. He seemed to be alone, but he never trusted his luck anymore.

"_Are you all right?_" Aziraphale asked.

"Obviously, if I'm well enough to chat," Crowley said, before the other being could discern if he was being honest. "Look, angel, we've got a situation."

"_Obviously_," Aziraphale said, sniffing. "_What can I do to help?_"

"Nothing."

"_Crowley_—"

"Literally, nothing," Crowley said shortly. "Hell's willing to ignore our… transgressions, granted I play nice. I'm still the best damn salesman they've got topside. They need the souls."

He specifically did not mention he had just received a promotion for his efforts last month and that was all according to his own specific plans.

"_Oh_," Aziraphale said, without asking, _What for? _It was good he didn't actually ask that, since Crowley did not know yet either. He had a feeling he didn't want to know.

Crowley rubbed his tired eyes. "And you need to keep an eye on Zephyr. Lilith didn't say anything about him, so I figured he was clear for now." Just one more loose end they had to keep under wraps…

"_He's fine_," Aziraphale said, sounding oddly proud. Of course he had adopted the wind spirit, just as he had adopted every other unfortunate creature who had wandered into their midst in London. "_He's growing up into that Holmes boy quite well._"

"Keep tabs on him," Crowley warned as he fought off a headache. "Keep him under."

The last thing he needed were more hostages to be played against him. It wasn't like he gave a damn about the other demon, but it wasn't Crowley's feelings that were being played directly. Aziraphale could be guilted in nearly anything.

There was Anathema and Newt to worry about, too. Adam probably could handle himself, but what about those two hunters who had tagged along? Aziraphale was always too sympathetic, so if their enemies decided to use their human allies against them, they could get to the angel quite easily. And that, Crowley wasn't sure he could personally handle at the moment.

And the Doctor himself. Crowley couldn't see him getting caught up with demons easily, but the man did travel to far off places. There was no telling if he'd ever get on their shit list as well. It was always a possibility now. Even if the future-Doctor had been alive to tell Canton about their existence.

"_I thought you said we were going to be ignored_," Aziraphale said, a question hovering in his voice.

"By _my_ people. What about yours?"

"…_Point_."

"I would recommend moving, angel," Crowley said after a beat.

"_But—_," Aziraphale began in immediate, expected objection.

Crowley growled. "Store the damn books," he snapped. "You don't sell any of them, anyway."

There was a short pause and he could almost imagine Aziraphale staring at the phone in flustered dismay. "_But, Crowley, this is a bit…rushed?_" the angel asked, sounding pained. Interesting; he wasn't dismissing the idea of shutting down his bookshop. Clearly, Aziraphale was scared, too.

"We're all going to have to make sacrifices if we want to survive to the next bloody apocalypse," Crowley said lowly.

Aziraphale made a soft sound. "_Oh, Crowley_."

"What?" Crowley asked, leaning more against the wall.

"_I'm sorry_," the angel replied, sounding heartbroken.

Crowley stared at the wall. "…There's no need to be sorry."

"_My dear, you have no idea how sorry I am all the same_," Aziraphale said, meaning it in a way that made Crowley's stomach churn.

"Ngk."

"_Will you be visiting any time soon?_" the angel asked hopefully.

Crowley doubted it, sincerely. "Maybe."

"_Be well, Crowley_," Aziraphale said, sighing.

"I'll try," Crowley said, not entirely lying, since he was definitely trying to stay alive. And outwit his employers.

"_You will_," Aziraphale said, sounding more confident. "_You're a crafty serpent_."

The faint teasing made Crowley abruptly smile, luckily only into the brick. "Oh, that I am," he said.

"_Call, or I'll be forced to find you myself_," the angel warned.

"You wouldn't want to come over to the States."

"_Exactly. I'm trying to make you feel guilty about me exposing myself to them._" 'Them' being Americans.

"Me? Guilty? Angel, you obviously don't know who you're dealing with here," Crowley said, moving so his back was against the wall. He stared up at the sky and a smiled grimly while no one could see it.

"_I know him quite well_," Aziraphale said softly. He let out a shaky breath. "_Stay safe, Crowley._"

He meant it when he said it. That was sort of worse in context.

"You too, Aziraphale," Crowley said, closing his eyes.

He shut the phone and took a deep breath. He would rise, he would climb, and he was succeed there. Even if it did kill him.

Demons did not care about other people.

Crowley did not have that sort of luxury.

.

* * *

**End **_**Choices**_**.**

* * *

.

Next, the Lestrade family spills its secrets.

**A/Ns**:  
-**YES, **the Eleventh Doctor is the one to meet Canton, as per canon, not the "typical" Tenth Doctor that will be predominantly appearing in this fic series. Yes, future!Doctor clearly knows more about future events than we (including Crowley) do. Fuckin' time travel, man.  
-Yes, Canton is still from 1969. I made him younger at the time of "Day of the Moon," to around age 25 (born in 1944). In 1991, he'd be around 50 years old, which fits Mark Sheppard's appearance better. He's aged well.  
-Amended to that note: in case you've never seen Canton or SPN!Crowley, they are played by the same actor, Mark Sheppard. This is my way of reconciling how GO!Crowley will look like SPN!Crowley. Bless u, SuperWhoLock.  
-They never gave Canton's fiancé a name, so I just made one up. No, Nixon never let them get married. :C  
-I only placed them in Florida as a nod to Mrs. Hudson's "husband." Refer to _Sherlock_ episode 1 of series 1.  
-"Fallen angel" – by his own admittance in _Good Omens_, Crowley is a fallen angel, so like Lucifer, he most likely can't just body-hop. I've merged this into SPN!Crowley as best I could.


End file.
